


Who Tells Your Story

by papergardener



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Angst, Assault, Emotional Roller Coaster, F/M, Family Drama, Happy Ending, Historical Homophobia, History, Hurt/Comfort, Imector, LGBT, Narrative, Reading Between The Lines, Shantytown, Slow Burn, Suspicions, character past exploration, explicit chapters, help this poor skeleton, he’s trying so hard to do the right thing, obscure headcanons, past comes to haunt him, self-indulgent fic, shady Héctor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-04-01 05:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 48,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13991211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papergardener/pseuds/papergardener
Summary: What has Héctor had been doing all that time in the Land of the Dead? Not much is known, but things turn ugly when a magazine begins publishing personal things… old friendships, questionable stories, and secrets that could tear apart all that he has been working for.A story about Héctor's afterlife. Aka 'This isn't What It Looks Like'





	1. Man of Mystery

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this story will deal with heavy themes, and some chapters/scenes are rated ‘Explicit.’ I will warn at the beginning of those and they can be skipped over.  
> 

“Héctor’s in the paper again,” Victoria said, slipping through the door of the workshop with a roll of calf-hide hoisted over her shoulder. This elicited much less of a response from the family than one might expect.  
  
“Anything interesting this time?” Oscar asked, not looking up from where he was busy punching out eyelets.  
  
“Doubt it,” Felipe said from beside him.  
  
Months had passed since the last Dia de Los Muertos, a night that was already passing into legend in the Land of the Dead, and proved life-changing for the Rivera family. Ever since that night, there had been a clamor to learn more about Héctor, the new star of the Underworld, whether he liked it or not. And he decidedly did not. Nor did his family.  
  
“Ugh they’re always the same thing,” Rosita said with a light huff. “Nothing we haven’t already read a dozen times. Hopefully it isn’t more of those mean rumors about him or Imelda.”  
  
Imelda didn’t even respond to that before going back to carefully cutting out leather. The papers had already interviewed her enough to know to leave her alone, and she was sure that eventually they would get tired of writing about Héctor as well.  
  
It had already become more or less known that Héctor was part of the Rivera family, and that he was indeed married to Imelda. When it was revealed that she was the mysterious ‘Llorana’ of the Sunrise Spectacular, there had only been greater pressure to learn more about her as well. However, she was better about answering questions, right up until they became too pushy and she would shove them out onto the street. They were less eager to interview her or her family after that. And after meeting Pepita.  
  
“Would you like to read it, Mamá Imelda?” Victoria said, offering the rolled up magazine. “Senor Perez gave it to me, before you ask.”  
  
Imelda sighed and hoped her eye wasn’t visibly twitching. “I don’t know why you even bothered.” Still, she took the offered magazine and looked at the cover image that loudly proclaimed:  
  
_Héctor: Man of Mystery!_  
  
The usual, then, Imelda thought with a faint twist of her lip. Another article spreading rumors and legends that did nothing to help muffle the fascination with him. There was a sketch of him, covered in shadow and grinning. Not a good rendition by any means, but she paid it little mind and read…  
  
_Certainly everyone has heard of Héctor,_ _the newest celebrity to grace our Land, but does anyone truly know him? For years he has suffered amongst the almost-forgotten, unloved and unappreciated. That is, until the truth of his death and life were revealed, and there has been a rush know more about this great man!_  
  
_He’s spoken of in glowing terms: a loving husband and father, a man willing to fight for his family! A man stricken from life at too young an age! Poor soul!_  
  
_But really, what did he do? Was he brave? Or selfless? Did he save lives or fight for his country? No. All he did was_ w _rite a few catchy songs and had the bad luck of being murdered by the famous Ernesto de la Cruz. Certainly, he’s had an unfortunate existence, but is he truly deserving of such adoration and pity? He has made it difficult to know, remaining shockingly close-lipped about his past._  
  
_Why has he kept so hidden amidst such outpouring of love? And despite being reunited with a supposedly loving family, he still lives in the land of the Almost-Forgotten. Is this a show of his great humility? Respect for his newly rejoined family?_  
  
_Or… is he hiding something?_  
  
_Dear readers, his reputation is not as clean as you might think!_  
   
_We have discovered some fascinating, and at times disturbing, facts about him, which we will be presenting over the following weeks in a five-part series. Who was he in life? What did he do in death? Did he really stay loyal to his wife all these years? Or did he find others to keep him company? What is his connection to a Shantytown whorehouse? What about his past is he trying to hide? Is he really the family man he would have us believe?_  
  
Imelda skimmed through the rest of the article, but it was written in such a mean, vulgar way she barely caught any more words before she tossed it onto the counter.  
  
“Ugh, garbage! Why even read that?”  
  
“I don’t know, I found some of it interesting,” Victoria said off-handedly, picking it up again with a cursory glance at the cover. “Even if it is written so rudely.”  
  
“What’s it say?” Oscar asked. Victoria walked over and handed it to him while Imelda went to her desk in the corner and filed away the receipt for the new calf hides, as the rest of the family gathered around Oscar.  
  
“Huh… did you read through it all?” Oscar said with a deep frown, as Felipe peered over his shoulder.  
  
“Mostly,” Imelda said scornfully. “I skimmed toward the end. It’s just the regular nonsense you find, nothing new.”  
  
“Really? Maybe it’s just me, but I had no idea he’d been living in those slums for so long. I thought he might have moved there more recently.”  
  
That got her attention. “What do you mean?”  
  
“It says here he moved to Shantytown soon after his death. If true, he would have spent, what… about ninety years there? And why would he live with a bunch of criminals?”  
  
“What?”  
  
Imelda moved over to also peer over his shoulder, and read where Oscar’s finger pointed…  
  
_The now-famous Héctor Rivera has been a long-time resident of Shantytown, longer than most would even believe, having arrived only a few years after his death. Immediately he moved into a hotbed of criminals: murderers, rapists, revolutionaries and worse! Men that even the almost-Forgotten feared and Héctor lived right in the midst of them. Very little is known about this period of his life…_  
  
“I… didn’t know that,” Imelda sad hesitantly. The truth was she knew almost nothing about his time among the dead.  
  
“And what about this?” Rosita said, pointing to the bottom where it read:  
  
_Next week: Héctor and the Other Woman_  
  
“The other woman…” Imelda said aloud and felt something prickle in her chest. That had a sharper effect than she would have cared to admit.

She had long suspected that he had run off with some beautiful young woman who had fallen in love with his music, and with him. That had been her prime suspect for his disappearance, that he had abandoned them for another woman. But once she learned the truth of the matter, it had never been anything she had brought up, not when they were finally starting to reconnect after so long.  
  
“Who could they be talking about? It wouldn’t be an article about you, right?” Victoria said, glancing at Imelda.  
  
“Doesn’t sound like it,” Felipe said. “They make it sound like he had a whole secret life or something.”  
  
“You don’t think he could have had another… uhh…” Julio said, tapping his fingers together.  
  
“¡Claro que no!” Rosita said with an indignant huff. “Héctor wouldn’t dare. I wouldn’t be surprised if they just talked to one of those girls who thinks she’s in love with him and made up some fool story.”  
  
Imelda felt a rush of gratitude for her daughter-in-law, who had, since meeting him, inexplicably become one of Héctor’s greatest defenders. Although it wasn’t too surprising, considering how much of a romantic she was at heart.  
  
“Rosita’s right. We shouldn’t give credence to such vile reading,” Imelda said sternly, looking at her family and daring them to contradict her. “The writers are clearly looking to get attention with all this. For now, everyone back to work, we still have the Gomez order to finish up before tomorrow.”  
  
She stepped away, taking the offensive magazine with her and throwing it into the trash as she walked to the front of the shop. But getting rid of the evidence wasn’t enough to make her forget what she had read, far from it. Certainly her family was still wondering about it. She could see it in their eyes and in the way they all looked up whenever someone stepped in, but Héctor didn’t show up that day. That in itself wasn’t unusual, he would only come around so often, as if slowly letting the family adapt to his presence.  
  
That evening she paused just before closing the door, looking up and down the street, but there was no sight of her wayward husband. She wished Héctor would have come, and wished she could see him and be assured that he was still there and still the same man she had fallen in love with. They had been going slow over the past months, almost too slow, too hesitant, but that could be blamed on both of them. The connection they had had in marriage, in life, wasn’t quite there, certainly not the way she remembered it. She had felt it that night of Dia de Los Muertos amidst the chaos and with him so close to the Final Death. But since then, things had somehow become a little tense, a thin tightness in the air. There was still a great deal unsaid between them, they both knew it.  
  
That night, lying alone in her bed, she stared up at the ceiling and thought about her husband. The truth was she didn’t know anything about his past. She hadn’t thought to ask. It hadn’t seemed important.  
  
Héctor, of course, knew about her. It certainly helped that her life and death revolved around her family, and they were more than happy to tell him everything, and he was an enthusiastic listener.  
  
But what about him? What did she know of his life after his death?  
  
She realized, with an uncomfortable sense of guilt, that she had been imagining him alone and miserable the whole time, a static existence broken only by his attempts to cross the Bridge or try to talk with her. But that seemed wrong the more she thought of it. Ninety years was a long time, far longer than his own short twenty-one years of life. Far, far longer than their few years of marriage together.  
  
What had he done? Where had he lived? Surely he hadn’t been alone all that time. He might have made friends, enemies… lovers?  
  
With a painful twinge, she was forced to admit… she had no idea.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it begins!  
> I’m pretty excited about this, as we explore just what Héctor has been doing for all those decades.  
> I hate the idea of him being basically alone and miserable for all that time… so he gets some friends! We’ll be meeting them in a few chapters, I just want the poor skeleton to be happy (even as I do my best to torture him).  
> Also, if anyone ever has any questions/comments/etc, you can also find me on tumblr under the same name.  
> Finally, constructive comments and feedback are always appreciated. I'm constantly looking to improve my writing, and this story is going to be a challenge on a number of levels, and there will always be ways for me to make it better.   
> Thanks!


	2. Gray New World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thanks for all of the interest! Now I just need to not lose my head and keep going…  
> *slips second chapter over*  
> Here, have some young and still hopeful Héctor, before things completely fly out the window.  
> (also, shout out to my lil' sis for being my beta reader!)

November 1925  
  
Héctor stood beneath the dark and worn gateway of the Land of the almost-Forgotten, carrying all that he owned in the world, and entirely unable to move.  
  
Somehow, impossibly, this place was to be his new home.  
  
It wasn’t right! he thought as he watched skeletons move in the distance amidst the crumbling buildings. They looked as worn and dusty as the world around them, as if everything had been dipped in gray.  
  
This wasn’t fair! he wanted to shout, biting his lip as he looked out at the dark and dismal land stretching out into the distance, growing darker still in the fading light.  
  
He didn’t belong there, it couldn’t be right.  
  
Yet another Dia de Los Muertos had passed, and for the fourth time he couldn’t cross over the Marigold Bridge. There had been murmurings for a while, from roommates to other musicians to the landlord who had finally kicked him out of the shabby little apartment he had lived in since arriving. He knew the rumors. Some people thought he was lying about his family, or had lied about how much his wife loved him. Or, worst of all, teased him that his wife must have moved on and found another man to keep her company.  
   
He found it hard to argue against because the truth was he didn’t know why he couldn’t cross. His wife, his daughter, his friends and family… surely they still remembered him. They couldn’t have forgotten him so soon. But then why had no one put up his photo? Or left an offering at his grave? No path of marigolds, no songs, no gifts of pan de muerto.

Nothing.  
  
Why didn’t anyone seem to care that he had died?  
  
He stood there, impossibly lost and alone, a ghost among ghosts. His guitar grew heavy in his hand, his shoulder began to ache from the bag slung over it, and the sun crept lower in the sky. With a final deep breath, he straightened his back and passed through the entrance into the depths of the Underworld.  
  
Somehow, somewhere, he would need to find a place he could call home. At the very least, a place to lay down for the night, out of the wind and weather. It was no small task. He didn’t know who to talk to, or where to go, with no friend or family or home amongst the dead. But then, of course, if he did have any of those things, he wouldn’t be down there.  
  
His feet moved him further along the muddy pathways, even as his mind screamed to turn and never come back. But still he walked on, sometimes slipping around festering puddles or over crude bridges where water still remained from the rainy season. Everything seemed worn down and rotting, like that was their natural state, strangely constant in a world that was anything but. Where was he supposed to go?  
  
“Ah, excuse me!” he called to a couple of men chatting outside a shack. Both paused, took one look at him, and frowned.  
  
“What do you want?” one asked in a gruff, low voice.  
  
“I’m looking for, uh… well, I’m not sure. I just got here and have no idea where to go. Can you—“  
  
“That way.” The other man pointed down a road.  
  
“Oh… gracias!” Héctor said cheerfully, his smile perhaps a bit too forced as the men scowled after him. Once he was past them he glanced back and wondered what he had said wrong. Perhaps newcomers weren’t welcome there, he thought as he made his way down the path, holding tight to his guitar, thankful he had been able to scrounge enough to get a case for it as he moved around a pile of rubbish in the street.  
  
A woman slowly walked past him, leaning heavily on a gnarled stick, her bones soft and gray like old wood. Glancing down at his own white bones, he wondered how long until that would be his fate. Was it true that just being there would make one’s bones turn gray and dusty? It was said that things decayed faster there: spirits, homes, and everything else. Food would rot, paper turn to dust, wood would warp and disintegrate. And souls would simply vanish, disappear in a cloud of gold dust, and their names would be forgotten for eternity.  
  
Was that his fate?  
  
Time and again he paused, gazed backwards, and then forced himself to keep going. There must be somewhere for him to go, although he grew increasingly pessimistic. He had hoped to find some friendly spirits in the worn down place, but everywhere he looked people seemed to look at him with suspicion and a chilly silence. Anyone that he asked simply pointed him in the same direction, and so he kept walking, feeling small and alone. He still didn’t understand where he was even going. Could he have taken a wrong path?  
  
“Hey, you there!”  
  
Héctor looked up from staring at his feet, and saw a few skeletons sitting on a raised porch. They were all looking towards him, and he pointed to himself with a questioning look.  
  
“Yeah, you! You a músico? Know how to play that guitar?” one man called out and waved a hand, beckoning him over.  
  
“Uh… sí. I was a musician when I died. And I can play pretty well.”  
  
“You know any good songs?” another skeleton said, eyeing him almost greedily. “Any corridos?  _La Rielera_?  _El Cuartelazo_?”  
  
“What about  _Panchovilla_?” another called out.  
  
“Sí, sí, I know those… Some of them… a little.”  
  
Honestly, he knew bits and pieces but didn’t know those kinds of corridos too well, since he had managed to avoid the worst of the revolution. He had been young when he had fought in it himself, just a child. Still, he had picked up some songs, and after traveling with Ernesto through town after town in Mexico, he had picked up quite a few more over the years.  
  
“That’s great! Hey, you looking for a place to stay?” The first man got up from where he had been slouching against a post.  
  
“What? How did you know?” Héctor asked as he came to the little porch.  
  
“Ahh, it’s obvious! Look at you, muchacho, you look like a stray dog wandering about. Come on, I’m sure we can find you someplace to stay.”  
  
“R-really?” Héctor said, and felt a smile on his face. Had he found his new home? Just like that?  
  
He followed the other man into the large, two-story building and was stunned to find others that looked like him. All around were young men, and some women, with strong white bones, looking jovial, and as alive as the dead could be.  
  
“Hey, I got us a músico!” the man called out as soon as they entered a wide, low-ceilinged room full of smoke and men’s laughter. Héctor had to blink through the fog and saw others all around as the man dragged him in by the arm towards a man seated on a low chair like the throne of a foreign king.  
  
“That’s Javier,” the man said in a low voice. “He’ll decide if you can stay or not, ya get me?” Héctor barely managed to nod before they were standing before him.  
  
“Who the fuck is this pendejo?” the seated man said, looking Héctor up and down with a stern eye. “New friend of yours, Pedro?”  
  
“Just picked him up off the street,” Pedro said, slapping Héctor on the back and shoving him forward. “Says he knows how to play guitar, and he’s looking for a place to stay.”  
  
“Uh… hi there,” Héctor said, waving a hand and feeling like he was very much in the wrong place.  
  
The man rose to his feet, looked him up and down, and then gave him a toothy grin, sticking out a hand for a firm shake. “A músico, eh? Well then, make yourself at home! We lost our last one not long ago. It’ll be good to have someone who actually knows what he’s doing.”  
  
“Really? I-I can stay? That’s great! Ay, ay, I thought I wouldn’t find anywhere to stay.” A flare of hope flickered within him. Maybe he could do this, after all.  
  
“Fate must have brought you here,” Javier said, throwing an arm around him and waving about the room. “We may not have much, but we make do.”  
  
Héctor would have liked to ask more, but Javier merely sat back and waved a hand, dismissing him. When he turned, he found Pedro has disappeared from his side, and no one else was remotely familiar. He picked up his guitar case and just barely stepped away before he was stopped again.  
  
“So you’re joining us, hombre?” another man said, coming up and nodding amiably. He was short, dressed in the same dusty-tawny clothing as many of the others, and had a bandage around one bare arm. “Good to hear it. I’m Alvaro, mucho gusto!”  
  
Héctor shook his hand and introduced himself, thankful there were at least some friendly faces. Alvaro nodded with apparent understanding, and said, “Shantytown’s a tough place. We gotta stick together, che. And I can tell you’re another like us.”  
  
“Eh? Like you?”  
  
“Sure!” he said, grinning widely and gesturing to the other skeletons, many with pale bones, ragged clothes, and bare feet. “Another poor soul here too early. Your living family forsake you then, eh?”  
  
“Well, no, that’s not—“  
  
And ya ain’t got no familia in the Dead, either, I bet, or you’d be with them.” Héctor had less to say to that, and closed his mouth. Alvaro laughed at his expression, clapping him on the back. “Ah, don’t worry about it, kid. The rest of the Dead may turn up their noses, but we get you.”  
  
Héctor wanted to argue. He wanted to say that, no, he wasn’t being forgotten, that there was clearly some misunderstanding because… well, he didn’t really know. But before he could speak, there was a shout interrupting his thoughts.  
  
“Come on, músico, play something!” a man called out, and there were a chorus of agreement and curious looks.  
  
Héctor looked out at his eager audience and felt excitement like he hadn’t felt in months as he pulled his guitar out and strummed a familiar chord.  
  
“ _Señoras y señores, Buenas tardes, buenas_ —“  
  
He stopped singing abruptly, at hearing the shouts and disgruntled noises from all around.  
  
“The hell is that?”  
  
“Fuck that noise! Play something we know!”  
  
“What corridos you got?”  
  
This kind of audience. His eye twitched, but he took a breath and smiled. One thing he had learned while being on the road with Ernesto was how to put on a show. With a quick strum he rolled his shoulders and started over, singing one he was sure they’d know, and began “La Valentina” to approving hoots. He could do this, he thought to himself as he sang out the lyrics, soon joined by many others.  
  
He played song after song, getting one request after another and maneuvering around the ones he wasn’t as confident with. Songs about famous generals and battles, lost love and beautiful girls, and melancholy life.  
  
As he did, he took note of his new home. It was a well-built place with white-washed walls and well-scuffed floors, and in the corner a staircase to the second floor. Many of the men looked like revolutionaries, some with wide sombreros, others with bandoliers crossing their chest, including one soldaderas who wore her rebozo shawl crossed instead. There were other skeletons in skirts, although they kept quiet and skittered to and from, heads bowed low. They reminded him fiercely of the viejas, the camp followers during the Revolution, and it was somewhat distracting. They looked quietly unhappy, he thought, and that seemed a warning sign.  
  
However, the men were friendly enough, certainly more amiable than the rest of Shantytown that he had seen. Some offered him tobacco and macuche, which he declined for how difficult it was to sing with, or their canteens, which he accepted. The night seemed to go on and on, and very quickly he grew tired, but kept playing.  
  
“Perdoname, I just need a break,” he would say, and then get called to play one more song.  
  
It took a few tries and something like pleading, but finally he was able to escape as the last of men dispersed, and he let his fake grin drop and his shoulders slump forward. He had always disliked these kinds of performances, where he had to actually act and work at it. Ernesto probably would have done better there, he thrived in that environment. For a moment Héctor was struck by the pain of missing his brother. Would he still be playing music? Did he ever achieve his dream?  
  
There was always a guilt lodged in his heart for abandoning his family. But there was another one for abandoning his closest friend. So many regrets. There was so much he had wanted to do. So much he had wanted to  _be_ …  
  
He pushed aside those familiar, lingering thoughts, and went to find someplace quiet, which wasn’t all that hard. So late at night, most of the men were already asleep and strewn about the floor, although a handful played card around a little lamp, half-stifled with smoke. It was far later than usual, but that was all right, he still had a promise to keep.  
  
He sat down against a wall, sighing as he realized how much his legs hurt from standing all day. Setting the guitar in his lap, he plucked familiar chord and it relieved some of the tension that had been building in his shoulders. Softly, low under his breath, he sang the familiar words of Coco’s song, unheard by anyone else under the general noise.  
  
Things weren’t great. They couldn’t be, considering he was dead and away from his loved ones.  
   
But at least he had a new place to stay, perhaps even new friends. True, they were a bit on the rough side, but at least they had an appreciation for good music, right? And they seemed friendly enough.  
   
And no matter what anyone else could do or say, he still had his song and the hope that one day things would get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: a corrido is a style of song popular during the Mexican Revolution. Like a folk ballad.  
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Some Other Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The family takes a walk and Imelda decides to ask Héctor about his past. Things don’t go to plan.

None of the Rivera family talked again about Héctor’s magazine article, at least not when Imelda could hear it. Even so, the article seemed to linger in the back of her mind, making her reflect on how little she knew about her husband.  
  
She was thinking about him again the following evening as her family walked to the nearby plaza, with Héctor right in the midst of them. From the back of the group, she watched him nearly arm in arm with Rosita, both of them excitedly talking over each other about music and dancing.  
  
“We used to have to avoid the plaza because there always seemed to be something going on,” Rosita said with real longing in her voice. “Always a festival or party or just mariachi’s cheering away on the corner.”  
  
“Ah, that might’ve been me some time!” Héctor said with a laugh, then paused. “Ehh, although, to be honest, I haven’t done that for years and years, so maybe not. It’s funny, actually, I, uh... I also avoided this place for the past few years.”  
  
“Oh? Whatever for?” Rosita asked.  
  
“Afraid you’d run into Imelda and get yelled at?” Oscar asked.  
  
“Or a boot thrown at you?” said Felipe.  
  
Imelda stared at the ground and let herself fall back another half-step. They were joking; there was no malice intended. Yet it still stung because it was true, and was something she was increasingly coming to regret.  
  
“Ehhh, things just sorta happened,” Héctor said in his usual off-hand way. “After a time it was just too painful to listen to music, or watch dancing. And, of course, I knew about the music ban, so it just made sense that I should stop as well.”  
  
Imelda was coldly reminded once again how much she had likely hurt her family with her choices. How much pain she had caused Hector, knowingly and willingly. Yet, things were finally beginning to heal. Looking up at him again, she noticed how cheerful he was, his grin almost blinding as he laughed and talked with the rest of their family.  
  
Imelda silently watched him and found herself smiling as well, the joy radiating from him almost infectious. How long had he waited for this opportunity? How long had she denied him this happiness?  
  
They clustered in a small group off on the side of the plaza, while men and women danced in the center with whoops and cheers while a roaring mariachi band played on stage. Imelda kept to the side of her family, feeling uneasy with her estranged husband so close. Although at least her family was happy and able to enjoy music again. Perhaps they would even dance, after so long.  
  
Then a hushed voice from nearby distracted her.  
  
“Psst, hey… is that Héctor? The songwriter?”  
  
“Oh, I think it is! Wow, he’s right there!”  
  
Imelda turned and frowned at the speaker, but she wasn’t sure who it was. Her eyes scanned the crowd and wondered who was also watching her husband, and wished they would simply leave him alone. Everywhere he went he seemed to catch attention, and once it started it was hard to stop. She knew that Héctor was tired of the constant stares and people approaching him in the street. At least, she assumed it bothered him. It certainly annoyed her a great deal.  
  
Sooner than she expected, the song ended and the dancers and crowds cheered. Héctor was suddenly at her elbow, standing comfortably with one hand on his hip and eyes fixed on the dance floor.  
  
“I forgot how much fun it is just to watch,” he said. Despite his smile, there was a pain there, and Imelda again wondered how much of that was because of her.  
  
“Did you really stop music because of me?” she said, almost surprised at herself, and how soft her voice was.  
  
“Huh? Oh no, no, no!” Héctor said nervously, waving his hands. “Don’t even think that. It wasn’t your fault, really. I understand why you did it. You were trying to protect your family, and yourself. I get that. Really, I do."  
  
She looked at him with a little smile, and in her heart, she forgave him just a little bit more. And perhaps even forgave herself. She doubted that Héctor could ever truly understand what she had gone through, but at least he was trying.  
  
“But let’s not worry about that now,” Héctor said, seeming anxious to move away from the topic. “It’s in the past.”  
  
“Speaking of, I was wondering… what did you do during all this time? Since you died, I mean?”  
  
“Oh you know, this and that," he said with a vague wave of his hand. "It was a long time, there’s not a short answer. I had a couple odd jobs over the years: mariachi, building houses, writing music, different stuff like that. But honestly, a lot of the time I spent in Shantytown with friends.”  
  
“Who were these friends?” Imelda prompted, aiming for a casual, curious tone, thinking again of that wretched article. “Was there… ever another woman?”  
  
“What?” Héctor said, stunned. “You mean like… no, no, of course not! I was too much in love with you to even look at another woman.”  
  
Imelda gave a huff of laughter.  
  
“I’m serious! Everyone knew I was married, so as far as they knew I was completely off the market, no question. Why?” He smirked at her, waggling an eyebrow. “Are you jealous?”  
  
“Of course not,” she said, rolling her eyes at his teasing tone. “I was merely curious. It had been a very long time, after all.”  
  
“You know I’m yours, mi amor. Always will be.”  
  
She looked down at her lap, flustered but pleased. It was amazing how he could make her feel like a young girl all over again. Like when they had first fallen in love.  
  
A new song began from the stage, a jota that they had danced together as teenagers, and even at their wedding. She wondered if he still remembered. For some moments they watched the dancers gather together, couples walking up hand-in-hand with the women in long flowing skirts. Imelda felt her foot want to start tapping and restrained herself on instinct. But, she reminded herself, she didn’t have to do that anymore. The music began to thrum within her, and she allowed herself to listen to it, felt the familiar urge to get up and dance. Perhaps she could again, after so many years... with Héctor’s hand in hers.  
  
She glanced over at him, also watching the dancing and there was pain and hope and something indescribable in his eyes, almost longing. Had he stopped dancing because of her as well? There was still so much unsaid, so much they had to work through. Were they ready to take that next step?  
  
Héctor shifted nervously at her side. “Imelda, I, uh… would you like to—“  
  
“Héctor?” A young woman called out, making them both look up. “Is that you?”  
  
“Huh? Maris…” Héctor whispered, his eyes wide as he slowly rose to his feet. Then, before Imelda knew what was happening, they were both running to each other and the strange woman leapt into his arms as he spun her around, holding onto each other like long-lost sweethearts.  
  
Imelda felt her mouth hang open before she snapped it shut with a glare that might have set a match on fire. What was he doing? As she watched, they separated and the strange woman gazed into his eyes while he looked tenderly back. Then, as brazen as she pleased, the girl reached out and laid a hand on his chest, touching him as if she had any right! Their lips were moving but no words could be heard over the music, and Imelda felt her heart burn. Who was that woman? What were they talking about?  
  
Imelda didn’t recognize her at all, which meant she wasn’t from Santa Cecilia. Attractive, with shining black hair in a thin braid between her shoulders, modest but well-made clothes, a narrow beaming face. Young, beautiful, and touching her husband like she owned him. Who the devil was she?  
  
Distantly, Imelda could feel the eyes of her family watching, waiting to see how she would react. Trying to appear collected and calm, she stood and squared her shoulders, just as Héctor and the girl embraced again, holding each other like it was their last moments in the world. Then Héctor abruptly pulled away with a sudden look of unrestrained joy, taking the girl’s hand in his and wildly waving with his other. He led the girl towards Imelda with a proud grin, making her pause, alarmingly unprepared for whatever was happening.  
  
“Maris,” Héctor said, glancing at the girl at his side. “I’d like you to meet my lovely wife, Imelda.”  
  
“Oh, it is such a pleasure to meet you! Really!” she said, seeming overjoyed.  
  
“Y-yes, same,” Imelda said, trapped by social etiquette.  
  
“Imelda, this is Maris, an old friend of mine.”  
  
“I can’t believe it!” Maris said eagerly, looking between them. “Wow, to finally meet you! He’s spoken so highly of you, always going on and on about you and his little Coco. It was a running joke among us, haha!”  
  
“After so many years, I guess it sorta was, huh? Ay, it’s been forever since I’ve seen you!” Héctor said, still grinning. “What, almost ten years?”  
  
“I think so. Not since, hmm…" she paused, frowning, then shook her head. "Well, too long, anyway!”  
  
Imelda narrowed her eyes at hearing that, liking the girl less and less. If they were so close, why had it been years? Was she only coming out of the woodwork now that Héctor was famous?

She cut through the girl’s bubbling laughter to ask, “Pardon me, but how do you know each other?”  
  
“Oh! Maris and I actually met while we were still alive. Her family ran an inn in Mexico City where we had a gig one night.”  
  
“Yes, he and Ernesto… wait. Oh geez, that’s strange to think of now…Did he really murder you? Uh, anyway, they had played one night for a party, and I was able to listen in. They were wonderful.”  
  
“Then, crazy enough, we met up again here!”  
  
“I see,” Imelda grit out, looking at them suspiciously. “That was quite a coincidence, I suppose.”  
  
“Not really,” Maris said, unabashed. “After I died, years later, I actually went to Shantytown looking for him when I heard he was there.”  
  
That set off an alarm in Imelda’s mind.  
  
“You’re saying you only knew each other for a day, yet you went searching for him in the slums? After years?”  
  
Both Héctor and the girl went nervous and quiet under her gaze.  
  
“Oh, I, uh…” the girl glanced at Héctor who just frowned back at her with the tiniest hint of a shake of his head. Or was Imelda just seeing things? Maris fidgeted. “Well, you see… t-the truth is… well, that… that your husband saved my life.”  
  
“What?” Imelda said sharply, and looked to Héctor for confirmation, who nodded but didn’t meet her eyes, as if embarrassed. Or, perhaps, as if caught in a lie.  
  
“It really wasn’t that big a deal,” he began to say, but before she knew it the rest of her family surrounded them. Apparently, they had been listening closer than she had supposed.  
  
“Did he really? What happened?” Rosita said.  
  
“How did you manage to do that?” Julio asked, looking at him with surprise.  
  
Héctor looked too embarrassed to speak, so Maris told the story.  
  
“You see, that night we met some men cornered me in the street. They… they were about to hurt me when suddenly Héctor showed up and fought them, letting me escape.” She looked down, biting her lip. “I don’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t been there.”  
  
“Oh,” Imelda said, stunned.  
  
“Really? Well done, Hector,” Oscar said, staring at him with new appreciation.  
  
“I didn’t think you as much of a fighter,” Felipe said. Which was true, Imelda thought. He had never been one prone to violence. At least not what she remembered of him.  
  
He looked uncomfortable, frowning at the floor. Imelda got the strange feeling that it was more than just embarrassment. She made to step forward, but stopped when Maris slipped her hand into his, making him smile at her, his eyes softening. Imelda had to restrain herself from taking her boot and physically beating the girl away.  
  
But before she could say or do anything to that effect, Maris glanced up, met her eyes, and her face dropped. There was a sudden look of horror and she pulled her hand away, surprising Héctor, and took a step back.

“Oh… oh I’m so sorry! I’m interrupting time with your family, aren’t I? I should leave you be.”  
  
“Huh?” Héctor said, frowning at her. “You’re fine."  
  
“No, that’s all right. I should get going anyway, I just saw you and wanted to say hi," she said, falsely casual. "But, uh… are you still staying at Aida’s place by the half-sunk dock?”  
  
“It’s all sunk now. But yeah, I’m still there. Just me though.”  
  
Her smile faltered a moment, with something like pity in her face. “Mind if I come by sometime? Oh, or better yet, you can come by my place.”  
  
“Yeah, I’d like that,” he said softly, and Imelda hated seeing such tenderness directed to this strange woman.  
  
“How about Thursday evening? You can come over for dinner and I’ll get some tape for that rib,” she said, eyeing him with an admonishing frown. Then her smile returned and she turned to Imelda and gave a nervous little bob. “It really was a pleasure to meet you.”  
  
They watched her walk away, staying to the outside of the dancers before disappearing into the crowd.  
  
“Ah, she’s a good one,” Héctor said, crossing his arms and looking fondly in her direction. “You know, even though she has a good life amongst the Remembered, she’d often come to Shantytown and spend time with us.”  
  
“Glad to hear it,” Imelda bit out, turning and walking away. Héctor followed after a pause, staying close beside her.  
  
“Imelda? Are you all right?”  
  
“Fine,” she snapped, then regretted it. She forced herself to slow down to actually face him, reminding herself not to jump to conclusions. That had caused enough problems in her life. “I’m… surprised, that’s all. This was the first time I heard about any of this. You never mentioned it in any of your letters.”  
  
“It was actually just a short time before I died. Besides, it didn’t seem like something to write about. She’s giving me way too much credit. I didn’t save her life so much as, well… her honor, you might say.” He grimaced, but only for a moment, before shrugging his shoulders. “I didn’t want you to worry that I was getting into fights.”  
  
She huffed, caring far less about that than she probably should have. “It sounds like you two were pretty close. Didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”  
  
“Ehh, to be honest, we barely knew each other when we were alive. It was just one night—“  
  
“One _night_?” Imelda said, glaring at him.  
  
“I mean one day!” Héctor said defensively, putting his hands up. “I just meant, well, we usually play in the evening. Our performances, I mean.”  
  
She bit her lip and tried to calm the flare of anger. It was harder than she would have liked to admit. To see Héctor in the arms of another woman, and one who obviously had a history with him… it seemed only a confirmation of her worst fears. She was uncomfortably reminded of that article that spoke about ‘the other woman.’ Could she have just met her?  
  
“Imelda?” Héctor said, stepping around and putting his hands on her shoulders. “I promise you, Imelda, whatever you’re thinking, nothing happened between us.”  
  
She gazed at him, and for all the worry in her heart, he seemed genuine. With a great sigh, she conceded. “All right. If you say nothing happened… I believe you.”  
  
“Thank you.”

She looked at him, but again he seemed unable to meet her eyes. He bit his lip, then said, “It’s getting late, I should probably get going. I’ll, uh… I’ll see you around later, ok?”  
  
She made no reply, but only watched in silence as he too disappeared into the crowd.  
  
Something wasn’t right. There was something he still wasn't telling her, but what?  
  
There was still so much she didn’t know about her husband.  
  
~~~  
  
Héctor walked back through the side streets, not wanting to speak to anyone. A sickness filled his bones. He was surprised how much it could still hurt after so many years.  
  
_Nothing happened_ …  
  
That was a lie.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two chapters are going to be posted back-to-back, so it may take a little longer to get those done, but hopefully soon.  
> We'll start getting some answers about what secrets Héctor is hiding.
> 
> *Update*: There's fanart!! [BabyCharmander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyCharmander/pseuds/BabyCharmander) drew a scene from this chapter and it's adorable! You can see it[ here](https://bcdrawsandwrites.tumblr.com/post/179252035783/nearly-forgot-about-this-im-not-gonna-finish-it). Thank you!!
> 
>  


	4. Night in Mexico City part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EXPLICIT CHAPTER  
> Warning: Graphic depictions of violence, assault, and rape, as well as homophobia.
> 
> This chapter can be skipped. Or, if you would like to skip the worst of it, read until you see ‘~~~~~~’ and go right to the next chapter, which has already been posted and contains the immediate aftermath. 
> 
> Can I just say... I didn’t want to write this, ok? I really didn’t want to write this. But it’s necessary to the story to know about it.
> 
> One cultural note- it was not uncommon for men to share a bed together, and it wasn’t considered homosexual. Just in case anyone’s confused by the opening.  
> Language note: puto is a slur for a male whore. Maricon is a slur for queer. Both are highly offensive.  
> Sorry in advance.

December 1921

Héctor woke up in pain.

His head was throbbing as he peered around the dark room, confused until he saw the large figure on the bed he had fallen from. Seeing who it was, Héctor just sighed and let his head fall back as Ernesto snored on, oblivious to having shoved him out of the bed. Again.

With a faint groan he pulled himself to his feet and glared down at Ernesto, sprawled out wide in the single bed they were sharing that night, one of the many downsides to being poor traveling musicians. At the next place, he was going to insist on two beds, he thought peevishly, because this was getting ridiculous.

Héctor pressed a hand to his eye as he tried to remember where they were… must still be Mexico City, but he couldn’t remember even the name of the inn. It didn’t matter; it was all the same, night after night. He spotted a chair and desk by the window that would have to make do to sleep on, even if it meant an aching back in the morning. He yanked a pillow off the bed and staggered over, pulling out the rickety chair and plopping his head down on the lumpy pillow, sighing into it. If he was lucky he could still get a few hours of sleep before they had to get up.

Then he heard a noise that made his hair stand on end, like a muffled scream.

He lifted his head, wondering if he’d imagined it. The fear crossed his mind of banditos stalking through the night, but he reminded himself this was the city, not some little town or hacienda. No, it was likely something else. He pulled back the rough curtain and peered out into the street below. A sudden movement from the left caught his eye, little more than a shadow in the darkness. A person? Or maybe more? There was something ominous in the dark shapes.

There it was again! It definitely sounded like a woman screaming. Héctor jumped from his chair, his heart racing at the sound.

Without even pausing to put on his shoes he ran out, racing down the dark hallway, his bare feet almost silent on the cold wood floor. Coming to the narrow stairs, he leapt down two and three at a time before he burst out onto the street. He stopped, holding his breath and turning his head slowly. Where was it? His window had been overlooking a side street. It must have been to the left.

He took off, turning the corner onto a small dark alley that smelled of urine and filth, scattered with rubbish, and where he saw the same ominous figures from his window. Something felt wrong, like the crackle in the air before a storm. Gripping his hands into fists, aware of his heart thudding in his chest, he slowly approached. What were they doing? They spoke in quiet murmurs and seemed to be clustered around something on the ground. Something moving.

“Hey there,” he called out, trying to sound casual, friendly, but couldn’t quite hide the bite in his voice. “What’s going on?”

They jumped up to face him, immediately hostile.

“Fuck off!”

“Mind your own damn business!” 

Héctor stood for a moment, could feel the prickling on the back of his neck, warning that this was dangerous. Whatever was happening, he wasn’t supposed to be there. Then a movement caught his eye, making him pause.

“H-help me!” a girl cried out breathlessly, then one man moved quickly upon her, and there was a stifled gasp.

“Shut up!” he hissed, bending low before turning to Héctor. “Keep walking, _che_! You didn’t see anything, you get me?”

His body tensed, a dull red filling his mind.

“Let the girl go."

One man let out a bark of laughter. “Yeah? The hell you gonna do about it?”

 _Shit_ , there were a lot of them, Héctor realized, clenching his jaw harder. Too many to fight off. What could he do? Go back for help? One of the figures started advancing towards him, with an almost casual air, and Héctor thought he caught a flash of light in the darkness, like the glint off a blade. He took a shaky step backwards, breathing hard. If he went for help, would he make it back in time?

“Let the girl go and I won’t say anything,” Héctor said, yet already knowing it was useless.

“Fuck off, _hombre_ ,” the man approaching said. That was definitely a knife in his hands.

Not taking his eyes off the man with the knife, Héctor stepped back, raising his hands high, showing he was no threat. This was far beyond him.

“Ok, ok… I’m going.” He would get help, he decided. He could wake Ernesto, or find the hotel staff, or anyone. And then he would return, and maybe… maybe that’d be enough. There was a strange little sound from the girl, like a muffled sob. He stilled, hardly breathing. They’d probably be gone by the time he got back. And the girl… what would they do to her?

No. He couldn’t leave her. Gritting his teeth, he lowered his hands to his side and pulled them into fists. It was too late to convince them otherwise, too late to get help. Before he could change his mind, he pulled his head low and charged at the closest man, the one with the knife, and then side-stepped before he was in range, and instead turned to the group of men who were jumping back in shock.

With a shout he slammed his shoulder into one man, throwing him hard to the ground and taking advantage of the little surprise he had. Then another man swung hard and he leapt back, just out of reach, He was quicker than them, the adrenaline pumping through him, but it was all happening so fast, a wild blur of shouts and limbs. He was no fighter, not in the least, but he curled his hands into tight fists and punched as hard as he could into the soft targets of stomachs and the space between the ribs. Wildly he tried to keep his senses about, hardly aware of the grunts of pain coming from himself. He was hit, but only distantly aware of them. On his shoulder, a glance off his ribs, a bad one in his gut, but he pushed on, staying on his feet and thinking of what to do.

He had to get out of there but… where was the girl? He had no idea in the dark chaos. There was no sight of her, no noise. If he could just grab her and run... if they could just run they could get away! Then his mind lit up in a blinding flash of pain, white and hot as he was struck hard on the side of his head. The next moment he was on the ground, everything lurching wildly like the earth had punched him.

With shaking limbs he tried to scramble to his feet, but a kick to his gut made him collapse again, shocking the breath out of him. There was another sharp kick to his ribs, and his limbs spasmed and he was on the ground again. No! He had to get up! He had to fight back! A strike to his back shot a jolt of pain down to his toes, but he could only open his mouth wordlessly, couldn’t even scream. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stand.

Soon they were all around him, and all he could feel were hard boots striking him everywhere, and he could only curl up and cover his head. Only time and pain existed, and he found a strange detachment beneath the harsh blows, a numbness that should have scared him.

“Enough, enough!” one man called out in a low voice, making most of them pause, with just one more glancing kick to his forearm covering his head, and then it grew quiet.

“Pick him up,” the guy said in an exasperated voice. “Keep him quiet.”

Strong arms grabbed him under his armpits, forcing him to uncurl from where he lay as he was heaved up and then forced down to his knees. His hands were held behind his back, and there was a hand clenching his shoulder in warning. But he didn’t speak, or shout, or struggle. He barely knew what was happening, and his head was spinning, filled with a high keening whine that made it hard to focus.

A sudden crash made him look up, and he saw a man, who he supposed was their leader, kicking at rubbish by the wall.

“Where the hell did that _puta_ go?” he said furiously, keeping his voice low. “She was right here?”

“Ran off,” one grunted in reply.

“ _¡Carajo!_ You idiots couldn’t hang onto one little whore? The fuck is wrong with you!”

Héctor felt his lip twitch. At least he had gotten one thing right.

“We got him, though,” one said, kicking Héctor in the arm, making him hiss air through his teeth, but kept his head down. If he kept quiet, maybe they’d let him go. He wasn’t worth anything to them. Right?

“As if I give a damn!” the leader said, spitting on the ground in derision. “Just kill him and let’s go.”

“No!” he shouted, jerking his head up, his breath freezing in his lungs.

“Someone shut him up."

“No… no, please!” He twisted against the hands holding him down, suddenly shivering, freezing. “My wife, she… my daughter needs me! I can't...“

He couldn’t die. He’d never see his family again. Imelda… he couldn’t leave her. Coco…

“A wife, huh? As if I give a rat’s ass about your fucking _puta_ or your fucking little brat! Ponce, take care of him.”

He couldn’t breathe, couldn't stop shaking as he saw one man pull out a knife. No… no, he couldn’t die there. He had to be there for Imelda. For Coco. He made a promise.

“Someone will… people will notice I’m gone! My friend, he’ll—“

“No one’s gonna give a damn about you. And no one’s gonna come, _muchacho_ ,” the leader said. “If they did, they’d already be here.”

His neck prickled. Why didn’t he wake Ernesto when he ran out? Maybe someone might have heard something and ran to the police. Maybe Ernesto would wake up and see he was gone and go looking for him. Maybe… he was on his own.

“Please…” he said through clenched teeth. “Just let me go. I’ll give you anything. I... I’m begging you. Please.”

There was a ripple of laughter from the surrounding men, and Héctor felt hot shame creep up his face. As long as he survived, it didn’t matter what they thought. He couldn’t die, not yet.

“Heh. You know, on second thought…” the man crouched down before him, then gripped his chin, turning his head left and right. “Damn ugly bastard, eh?”

Héctor grit his teeth, glaring hard at him. He was being toyed with. Maybe he could use that time to think of a plan to escape, but he couldn’t think far past his terror, edged by a growing fury. He had to survive. Imelda and Coco were waiting for him.

“Please…” he said through clenched teeth. “I’ll do anything. My family needs me.”

“Ahh, don’t worry _muchacho_ ,” the man said cheerfully, patting his cheek before standing up again, towering over him. “I ain’t gonna kill ya. A good _padre_ like you? Nah. I’ve got something better in mind. Something to make sure you never speak of this night for the rest of your life.”

He nodded to the man at his back.

“Tie his hands.”

Fear shuddered through him. What were they… what were they going to do? He had an idea, too terrible to consider.

“What, no… no! Help! _Socor_ —“

A hard boot slammed into his stomach, making him double over, gasping for air.

“Shut up,” someone sneered, while rough hands worked away at his wrists, binding them tight, so tight he thought something might snap.

This wasn’t happening. It… it had to be a dream. A nightmare.

“Watch the alley. I’ll take care of this guy.”

The other men left with quiet murmurs, leaving Héctor alone with the leader, and his terror only grew. He couldn’t get enough air, strangely light-headed. His fingers were going numb as he strained against the fabric around his wrists. He felt trapped. Except, no… his legs were free.

He pushed off the ground, charging forward, head bent low, only thinking about getting as far away as he could, praying he might run into someone. But the man seemed to anticipate it, because as he bolted forward he was suddenly, violently stopped by a fist plunging into his gut. He fell hard to his side, gaping for air, his lungs not working.

No. No this couldn’t be happening.

A hand grabbed his hair, digging into his skull as he was yanked to his knees, as a strangled hiss made it through his clenched teeth. Then his head was released and it fall forward, hanging as he continued to gasp.

From behind him, there was the sound of a belt coming unbuckled, and his body went suddenly cold. Frozen. No...

Suddenly his head was yanked back, hard, and he was staring straight up and all he could see was a narrow strip of black sky between the buildings, scattered with bursts of stars.

Desperately, he thought of home. Of Imelda. Of Coco. Of the calm, peaceful nights and the wide open skies full of familiar stars. He wanted to go home.

Then came a soft whisper against his ear, bringing him back to the cold hard street, the gravel digging into his knees, the strange man looming over him, the reek of tobacco, sweat and stagnant breath.

“Don’t worry, _muchacho_... we’re just going to have a little fun.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All the air left his lungs, eyes staring wide up at the dark sky, praying he had misheard, misunderstood. Then, without pause, his undershirt was hoisted up around his hips, and then rough hands were groping at his pants, tugging at the laces. He lunged forward, head low and legs scrambling against the rough road.

“Stop! Don’t, don’t! Get off—“

His words were choked off as an arm pressed tight against his throat, pulling him upwards, almost off his knees.

“Best keep quiet,” the man said, his face very close. “Just keep still and let it happen, eh?”

“Nn… no, augh!”

He tried to twist away but the man paid no mind as he began to fumble at the front of Héctor’s pants. The strings quickly came loose and the rough material was yanked down to his knees, exposing him to the chill in the air. Héctor jerked against the sudden violation and again tried to dislodge him, gasping for air as the arm pressed tighter. Spots were appearing at the edges of his vision, popping black and white. Then suddenly the arm was gone, and he sank down, sucking in air. But where was-

The man's hand was violently thrust into his gaping mouth, and he felt his stomach heave at the pressure at the back of his throat. In his shock he didn’t think to bite down, as filthy fingers ran over his tongue, swirling around the inside of his cheeks. His body lurched, sure he was going to be sick. Then the fingers pulled from his mouth, accompanied by the sound of his own retching.

He dry-heaved and then spat on the ground, wildly disoriented. His mouth was full of the rancid taste of dirt, filth, and tobacco. Behind him, he heard the man spit as well, followed by a wet, rhythmic sound, and Héctor felt his heart seize.

“No, no please! Please!”

A hand clapped over his mouth, fingernails digging into his cheeks even as he struggled to get away.

“You begging for this? Maybe you’re a little _puto_ in disguise, eh?”

Héctor strained forward as the man pulled him close, pressing their bodies together, then one hand grabbed him low, squeezing tight.

“Augh, get off me!” he said, having gotten his mouth free for one moment. “Get the fuck off—“

The hand clapped tight again, sharp nails digging into his cheeks.

“Ah-ah-ah, I wouldn’t do that,” he murmured, pressing closer.

The man positioned himself between his legs, bending him forward, and Héctor felt it, hard and hot and _wrong_. His whole body lurched to get away, but it wasn’t enough. He was trapped. No, no… this wasn’t happening.

He screamed into the hand, the sound muffled and strained.

There was a sickening pressure against him, pushing insistently, and he couldn’t get away, he couldn’t damn move!

A strangled, muffled noise escaped his throat as the man pressed harder, grunting, and he strained against the sickening weight upon his back. There was a growing, building tension, his whole body trembling, uselessly struggling against him. Then there was a sudden sharp break, a violent burst of pain as something seemed to tear within him. For a long moment the world stood still, his mouth and eyes wide open at the shock, at the tremendous pain, as he stared up at the dark sky, the stars smeared through his tears.

“Fuck that’s good,” the man groaned as he moved within him, and a new wave of pain tore through him. Once again Héctor tried to pull away, to make it stop, but he couldn’t do a damn thing. His body wasn’t working.

_This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening._

Another muffled scream tore through his throat, praying for it to end, for the pain to stop.

"Heh, keep screaming,” the man said with a grunt, and Héctor could almost hear him smiling. “You really want someone to come and see you like this, eh fag?”

He froze at that, his voice dying in his throat.

_No… no, God, no..._

“That’s what I thought,” the man muttered, voice almost sweet, and then thrust deeper into him. “Don’t, ah… don’t want the world to know you’re just a filthy _maricón_ , eh?”

No. Damn it. _Damn it!_  He didn't know what to do. He didn’t want to be seen like that. Getting fucked by another man. God, if anyone saw him… he couldn’t bear it. It felt like he would lose everything. His shame exposed to the world. No…

The hand left his mouth, the fingernails scraping along his cheeks, and he strove to bite back the scream in his chest, forcing down the rising bile clawing up his throat. If anyone found them, if anyone saw them…

“That’s it, don’t fight...”

He tasted blood on his tongue, and realized it was from biting his lip so hard. There was a sudden hard thrust and Héctor lurched forward, gritting his teeth hard as he struggled not to cry out. It was revolting, surrounded by the stench of the man, reeking of sweat and filth. There was a vivid awareness of the sting on his knees from the hard road, a sharp but familiar pain that grounded him against everything else.

“You want people to see you getting fucked in the ass like a sniveling little puto? You say you got a wife out there?” the man taunted as he continued to thrust with ugly, animal grunts. “Heh.. maybe she’ll come see you like this. We can have fun with her too, eh?”

He shut his eyes at the thought, but no, that was wrong. Imelda was safe. She was safe, she was at home. For a moment he could see her in his mind, a soft smile on her face as she looked in on Coco sleeping. He missed her. His whole being ached to be with her again, to hold her in his arms, to make sure and Coco were safe, and together… why wasn’t he home?

His mind was violently forced back to the dark, empty street, to the gravel digging into his knees, as the man jerked against his hips and Héctor had to bite back a new scream, clenching his teeth tight, almost overcome with the pain of it. The shame. God, he wanted it over.

“Enjoying yourself?” the voice in his ear hissed before grunting again as he drove deeper into him. Then the man reached around, his hand crawling over his belly. Héctor twisted forward, his bare legs scrambling against the road as he tried to get away.

“Don’t!” he hissed, fury building in him, beyond the pain and the terror. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

But he couldn’t use his hands or arms. He was trapped. The man's hand dove between his spread legs, grabbed his soft cock and squeezed. Héctor grimaced, hissing through his teeth and feeling he might be sick.

“Stop it!” he begged. “Please, please don't...”

“Begging again? Ha! Bet you like it, you filthy little _puto_!” the man said, and bent over him even further, pressing down upon his back, forcing Héctor to hunch forward over himself.

“No! No, stop, nnn...” He bit down hard, sure his teeth might crack from the pressure, despising his traitorous body, the storm of feelings quarreling inside him. Even as the man fucked him, he kept one hand on his dick, pulling and squeezing it painfully until it began to stiffen, and Héctor thought he might die of shame. A sob escaped his throat, forcing shaking breaths through gritted teeth. He wanted it to end. He wanted it to be over.

“Let go, please!”

“Oh, I know you’re enjoying it. Little _putos_ like yourself can’t help it.”

He kept his eyes shut tight, afraid to even look down, afraid to see himself growing hard under the man’s hand. The man seemed everywhere: on him and in him and around him. A horrible, grotesque intimacy. Let it be over. Just make it stop…

Eventually the man’s pace grew erratic, thrusting faster and deeper with every push. His hand clutched tight at his hips, a bruising pressure, while Héctor tried to focus on not screaming, to focus on anything but what was happening to his body, to be anywhere else but there.

Then came a deep, ugly groan against his neck, and a disgusting burst within him. Héctor pressed his head lower against his chest and felt a sob escape him, could hear himself choking on his own breath, tears running cold over his face.

_Let it be done. Dear God, let it be over…_

His body twisted instinctively as the man finished and pulled out of him with a lewd squelch. Then the man stood back and Héctor collapsed onto the road, curling up on his side.

“Now… that weren’t so bad, right?”

Héctor didn’t speak, didn’t even open his eyes. He lay there and prayed no one would touch him.

_Just go. Just go. Please, please…_

There was the metallic rattle of a belt, of clothing being adjusted, and then the scuffling of a boot close to his face, and he flinched, jerking closer on himself.

_Go away! Leave me alone…_

“Heh. Pathetic little bitch, eh? Good fuck, though. Your wife must be so proud. My thanks,” he sneered, then spat on him, and Héctor flinched as the spittle landed on his cheek.

The footsteps moved away, and he heard the man calling out to his friends, and a new horror shot through him. He lifted his head an inch, looking to where he had gone and dimly saw the same shadowy figures in the distance.

_Don’t let them come, don’t let them come… please…_

He struggled to move, but couldn’t. His hands were still tied, his pants bunched around his legs, and he couldn’t move. He needed help. Biting his lip, he let his head fall back, felt repressed sobs shuddering in his chest.

_Someone… someone help me…_

But he didn’t want anyone to see him. If anyone saw, if anyone found him… they would know what happened. They would see his shame. And if those men came back, if they wanted to do the same thing... He twisted his hands against their bindings, pain shooting up his arms, shooting past the growing numbness. He was trapped. And alone. And hurt.

Help. He needed help. Someone…

_Socorro..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “[…] simplistic activo-pasivo logic (“I’m a man; if I fuck you, you’re not a man” continues to direct thought and behavior in Mexico, as elsewhere in Latin America.”  
> The Politics of Sexuality in Latin America, By Javier Corrales, Mario Pecheny
> 
> ‘Socorro’ means ‘help me.’ An urgent, desperate cry for help.
> 
> Chapter 5 has already been posted, and is intended to be read immediately after this chapter.


	5. Night in Mexico City part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: This chapter was posted at the same time as chapter 4.  
> READ CHAPTER 4 FIRST
> 
> ~~  
>  
> 
> After helping a girl escape a group of men, Héctor is captured instead, and later is left lying helpless in the street…

He couldn’t move.  
  
For an unknown time he lay there, shivering, his whole body aching and numb.  
  
He tried to lift himself, and shuddered as a wave of pain hit him, and he became aware of the bruises all over his body from the kicks and punches. For a moment he paused, waiting for the sharpness to fade, and then tried to rise to his knees but couldn't. A new fear crossed his mind like a shadow. He couldn’t move.  
  
A ragged sob escaped his throat. He wanted the pain to stop, but he knew this was deeper than physical pain, something that had punctured his soul and may never heal. His body had been damaged, but it was worse, worse than that…  
  
He didn’t want anyone to see him like that, broken and bloody and helpless.  
  
He didn’t want anyone to see him…  
  
God, he couldn’t move.  
  
Someone touched his shoulder and he flinched, cowering in on himself, terrified the men had returned. But it was a girl who spoke in a tiny, trembling voice.  
  
“ _Señor_ ,” she whispered. “ _Señor_ , are you all right? I-I can help. I…I’m so sorry.”  
  
“Wha… who?“ he muttered, still tensed, but slowly breathing again.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she said again, her voice cracking. “God, I’m so sorry.” He could feel her hands shaking as she undid the ropes around his numb hands.  
  
Why was she sorry? He closed his eyes and found his mind stuttering and slow. Then it made sense. She must have been the girl they had been attacking.  
  
“Are you okay?” he asked, the words strangely slurred.  
  
“I-I’m fine. God, what they did to you…”  
  
Something like ice crawled through him. The shame that had covered him like a heavy fog was suddenly sharp and real. Had she seen the whole thing? Did she know what they had done?  
  
Soon the rope around his wrists fell slack, and his hands were free. Slowly he brought them to his chest, curling around himself as he massaged the dents, barely able to move his fingers. He rolled his shoulders, feeling them creak, and wiped his cheek. Then, the shame growing more and more, he slowly pulled his pants up, his fingers shaking as he re-tied the laces, struggling not to cry aloud. But even then he didn’t stand, and was only vaguely aware of the girl moving around to his front, then flinched again when she lay a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“We have to go,” she said urgently, her voice low. “Can you stand?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
No, he couldn’t.  
  
He pulled himself to his knees and then stumbled, his legs shaking, uncooperating. The girl pulled his arm around her shoulder and hoisted him up with surprising strength. She led them through a side door around the corner that was shockingly close by, only a matter of steps. Is that where she had fled to? Both were silent as she shut the door behind them with a tiny click of a lock. Héctor looked down the hallway for anyone else but it was pitch-black, silent. The girl led him through the darkness, apparently knowing her way well enough.  
  
He wondered where they were going, but was too afraid to speak and break the silence, broken only by the patter of footsteps and the rustle of clothes. As they passed a series of doors he realized he couldn’t return to his room; couldn’t bear to have Ernesto see him like that. But apparently the girl had a plan, for she led him along a hallway, then up a creaky flight of stairs, then up another. Finally they came to a door, sneaking inside before the girl got out from under his arm, closing the latch with a trembling clatter, as if the men might be right behind them. Then she stopped, breathing heavily, and also sounding very close to tears.  
  
“Where… where are we?” he asked, standing perfectly still in the darkness.  
  
“My room. M-my bedroom,” she muttered, embarrassed. “Or it’s mine when there’s not too many guests at the hotel, otherwise we rent it out. It was the only place I could think of.”  
  
“Thank you,” he whispered, stunned at how tired he felt, his heartbeat going from a quickstep to a stutter.  
  
“Wait, wait, I…” she said in a voice of dawning recognition, and turned to look at him. “I know you. You… you’re the mariachi, aren’t you?”  
  
He squinted at her in the dark, but couldn’t see well enough, and her voice wasn’t familiar. Perhaps his confusion was apparent, because she went on.  
  
“You performed last night, right?” she said, the words suddenly spilling out. “I heard you, that why I thought I recognized your voice. I- this is my family’s hotel, so I heard when you sang and played the guitar.”  
  
“Oh...” He blinked, unsure what to say.  
  
“I… I really liked your music,” she said, then sniffed again.  
  
“That’s… that’s good,” he murmured, closing his eyes and felt himself sway. The girl was at his side again, catching him as his legs threatened to buckle. God, he was pathetic.  
  
He felt too dirty to be laid on a bed, but she set him down anyway. At first he tried to sit but a humiliating pain shot through him, making him flinch before lying instead on his side, curling up and feeling like a young, stupid kid.  
  
Then she spoke, just over a whisper. “I’m sorry.”  
  
He closed his eyes, letting his head sink onto the bed, the rough fabric mercifully cool beneath his cheek. “It’s all right. I’m… I’m glad you’re safe.”  
  
Then he realized how dry his throat was. “Do you… have any water?”  
  
She moved to the other side of the room and brought him back a cup, passed from one shaking hand to another, and he drank it all. After that she sat down against the wall, barely visible in the darkness.  
  
Another stretch of silence, broken by the tiny, tiny sound of her fiddling with the hem of her skirt.  
  
“My name is Maris,” she said finally.  
  
“Héctor,” he breathed out.  
  
“Is there anything I can do?”  
  
“No,” he said, tired of speaking.  
  
He lay curled up on the thin bed, unmoving as the girl sat there, neither one speaking. So much time passed he assumed she had fallen asleep, figuring that surely it was almost dawn, although the air was still black as blindness.  
  
Everything became distorted, his mind growing sluggish as his body ached. Time must have stilled. It was the only explanation. The little room became the entirety of existence, and he and the girl the only living souls within. It was terrifying, and unsettling, and lonely.  
  
Imelda’s face came into his mind and he shuddered, pulled tighter in on himself, and forced it away. He didn’t want her amidst his thoughts, afraid that the idea of her and home and Coco would become dirty by association. If he didn’t think of them, they could be kept safe and clean. How… how could he ever look her in the eyes again? How could he ever call himself a man? A husband? A father?  
  
It was as if a stranger lived in his body. Somebody not himself.  
  
Perhaps he slept, although he wasn’t aware of it. He just knew that sooner than it should have been, there was faint light outside the shuttered window. Apparently time had not stopped, and the world kept going, even though everything seemed wrong, like existence had been doused in a dirty shade of gray, or brown. Like ash, or dust, or smoke on the breeze that you might not see but would choke you when you least expect it.  
  
But no, it wasn’t the world that had turned gray and dirty, it was him.  
  
In the night he had changed, and he could never go back to who he had been.  
  
With a deep sigh he raised himself up before doubling over again at the stabbing pain in his stomach from where he had been kicked. He prodded it, felt the growing bruise. Again he sat up, slower. The girl, Maris, was still there against the wall, fast asleep over her knees, her arms tucked against herself like a little bird.  
  
He kept quiet as he tried to stand up, but everything was sore, and there was a pain in one spot too deep to mention, and he wondered if he was bleeding. Eventually he stood, leaning heavily against the wall for support as he struggled to breathe normally. He desperately wanted to lay back down. Or just disappear. That would be fine.  
  
There was a small intake of breath that wasn’t his, and he saw that Maris had woken, rising to her feet and looking concerned.  
  
“I have to go,” he said, his voice ragged. “It’s almost morning.”  
  
“Are you… are you all right? Do you not want a doctor?”  
  
“No. No doctor. I need to get back before I’m missed.” He paused, afraid to look at her. “Please, please don’t tell this to anyone.”  
  
“No. Upon my soul, I won’t say a word. I promise.”  
  
He nodded and pulled away from the wall, steadying himself. She reached forward to catch him then drew back, holding her hands to her chest, and didn’t move as he stepped past. But before he opened the door, he turned and finally got a good look at the girl. Small, with a narrow face, dark hair in a wispy braid down her back, and large brown eyes looking miserably at him. Just a kid.  
  
He gave her a smile, hoping it might be some comfort. “Thank you for helping me.”  
  
She stiffened, shaking her head quickly. “No, I-I should be thanking you. You saved me. And, God… and because of it…”  
  
“Ah, no, no, no, don’t think like that,” he said softly, turning fully towards her. “It wasn’t your fault. I’m just glad they didn’t hurt you, too. And… and at least I wasn’t alone afterwards.”  
  
He found himself reassured by his own words and stepped closer to her with an outstretched hand. “Maybe we’ll meet again. It was Maris, wasn’t it?”  
  
She sniffed, nodding and brushing at her eye before a sob escaped and she buried her face in her hands, muffling her cries, her shoulders shuddering. His hand dropped to his side, and could only watch as she stood before him in the dark little room and sobbed.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she choked. “God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”  
  
“Hey, it’s okay.” He put his hands on her shoulders, lowering himself to face her. “It’s okay.”  
  
She looked at him, her face screwed up, tears damp on her cheeks. She opened her mouth to say something, but instead threw her arms around him, burying her face against his chest.  
  
For a moment he was too stunned to move, could feel her shaking as she murmured apologies over and over against his heart. A shuddering gasp left him as a lump settled in his throat. He meant to comfort her, to say that things would be ok. But the words wouldn’t come.  
  
It wasn’t okay. _He_ wasn’t okay. What they did to him…  
  
He felt disgusting, untouchable… yet still she held him, clinging to him as if afraid to let go. There was a moment of surprise when a tear slid down his own cheek, his eyes burning.

Slowly, carefully, he put his arms around her. She only pulled him closer, and he bent his head into her shoulder. He didn’t know who was comforting who, but for that moment, he let himself be weak. His own body shook with sobs, biting his lip as tears dripped down his face. He cried for the pain deep, deep within his bones at what had happened. At the humiliation and the terror. At whatever innocence he had lost that night.  
  
For an unknown time, they simply held each other and cried.  
  
Then, slowly, they pulled away, neither meeting the other’s eyes. Maris silently went to a nightstand and brought him a wet cloth that he used to wipe his face of the tears and dirt, before handing to her and watched her swipe under her eyes. But both of them had noticeably relaxed, and he felt like he might be able to walk again. Like he could breathe.  
  
“I should go,” he whispered.  
  
She nodded, then took his hand in both of hers, rubbing over his knuckles as she gave a little hiccup.  
  
“I won’t forget you,” she whispered and brought his hand to her lips. It was strangely moving, and he almost laughed. Instead, he just smiled before leaning down and kissing her forehead. She really was just a kid.  
  
From elsewhere in the building they heard footsteps and muffled conversation, and both knew their time was up. Morning was rising fast, and he had to leave, especially before anyone found him in her bedroom. Absolutely no good would come of them being discovered.  
  
She opened the door, peeking quickly before ushering him out and leading him down the hallway, which was a great help considering he had no idea where he was. They crept through the somber building, avoiding an old woman carrying armfuls of laundry and a young boy striding quickly past. Héctor wished he wore something other than his underclothes, but it couldn’t be helped. Fortunately they were able to make their way to his room undetected. He lay a hand on the door, feeling the cool solidness of it, as if to assure himself it was real.  
  
The night was over.  
  
He turned toward the girl with a warm smile, feeling almost normal. “This is where we leave, then. _Adiós_ , Maris.”  
  
She managed a small smile in return, nodding. “ _Adiós_ , Héctor.”  
  
He watched her walk away and disappear around the corner. Despite all that had happened, he couldn’t regret what he had done. With a quick, silent prayer for her safety and happiness, he entered the little room and saw Ernesto still in bed. Héctor let out a faint sigh, thinking his disappearance had gone unnoticed. But then Ernesto propped himself up and looked blearily at him.  
  
“Where the hell‘ve you been?”  
  
“Ah… nowhere. Just wanted to get some fresh air.”  
  
“ _Idiota_ ,” Ernesto huffed, falling back onto the pillow. “Fresh air, my ass. Bet you were off with some girl. Heh, it’d do you some good.”  
  
Héctor sighed again, a great weariness pressing on his shoulders. Instead of replying, or stepping too close in the early morning light, he went to the side of the room and looked at himself in the speckled mirror. It was remarkable how normal he looked. Except for the eyes that stared back at him; those were different. There were dark shadows beneath them, faint traces of tears, and very small marks upon his gaunt cheeks, scratches buried among the faint stubble. Besides that, he looked the same. 

He placed a hand to his stomach, prodded at the edges of the interwoven bruises, and tried to mentally count off the other signs of pain. Some on his legs, his knees; a long tenderness running down his forearm, and a sensitive spot on his lower ribs that hurt when he breathed too deep. Then he lifted his hands up and pulled back the sleeves, uncovering his wrists. There. Proof of what had happened. That it had been more than a dream. Both his wrists bore purple-blue marks where they had been tied, made worse by how much he had strained and pulled against them. 

But those marks would fade, given time. The bruises would seep into his skin and disappear, and he would pretend it never happened. Maybe one day the pain would disappear, too.

He ran his thumb along his inner wrist, contemplating, and then moved to the window to look out at the new day. There, he only saw a dense gray fog, cold and clammy, and blocking the sky. The grayness seemed everywhere. Inside him. Within his very bones.  
  
Ernesto rolled over in bed with a huff, and he looked over to him, his best friend, his almost brother, and felt strangely calm. Ernesto couldn’t know what had happened. No one could. Especially Imelda. There was a great pang in his chest at the thought of her, a fierce longing to be with her. That feeling conflicted harshly with never wanting to be touched. As if he might infect her; as if she might shudder away from his embrace.  
  
What could he do? Where could he go from there?  
  
He had very nearly died that night. Might have never seen his wife or daughter again. The thought chilled him. To never again be able to hold Imelda in his arms, or sing to Coco. Never set foot in his home. How much longer he could bear this damn trip? Was this worth it?  
  
No, he thought with a grimace.  
  
He had to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He never did make it home.


	6. Héctor Y La Amante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! So those last couple chapters were a bit of a doozy!  
> But now we're past that, and it's back to Imelda and her growing worries about her husband.  
> And thank you to everyone who wrote such lovely comments, they make my day!

Imelda spent her morning thinking about her husband, which was still something of a novelty.  
  
She hadn’t seen him in days, not since that disastrous evening at the plaza where Héctor had met his ‘old friend’ who just so happened to be a young, beautiful woman who apparently adored him.  
  
But that wasn’t what was on her mind as her family made breakfast before the shop opened for the day. Normally her mind would be on shoe orders, or designs, or thinking of her family in the living world. There was always something to do, something important to worry about. Something she needed to focus on.  
  
Instead, Imelda was trying to remember what Héctor used to drink with breakfast.  
  
It was hardly important, and it would be easy to simply ask him, but it bothered her. She had forgotten, and was increasingly being reminded of just how much she didn’t know about him. Her own cup of hot chocolate lay cooling in her hands as she dwelled on it. Did he also drink it? She could almost remember making it for him when they were married, especially following long nights of work as a mariachi. Sometimes he wouldn't come home until dawn when he would stumble into the kitchen, dazed and exhausted, half-watching her as she worked around the kitchen. He would be nearly asleep on their little wooden table, and she’d press a cup to his hands with a stern order to drink it, or a little elote or a tortilla wrapped with soft white cheese and egg, a little something before he slept. And he would smile and thank her, gazing up at her with his large brown eyes, and she would feel strangely protective of her husband in those moments. But the thought was so faded, so old, she wasn’t sure if it was a memory or a dream, and they had been married for such a short time… she wasn’t sure anymore.  
  
Distantly she noticed the side door opening as Rosita walked in from her morning walk, like usual. Her family’s routines hadn’t been truly affected by the aftermath of Dia de Los Muertos, and that was something to be grateful for. They needed their routines, some stability in their lives, even as Héctor threatened to upheave that.  
  
“Mamá Imelda?” Victoria said, putting a hand on her shoulder, startling her from her thoughts. “I was going to open the shop now.”  
  
“Hmm… oh. Of course.” Was it that time already? How long had she sat there? She brought the cup to her lips and found it almost cold, but still carried it with her to the workroom, careful not to spill as she looked over the to-do list for the day.  
  
Even as her eyes looked over the notes and orders, her mind lingered on Héctor, and was irritated at herself for being so distracted. But where was he? Why hadn’t he come by? Was he being respectful? Was it out of guilt? Or was he trying to give her space? Although that would be foolish of him, considering the last time they had talked he had thrown himself into that other woman’s arms. True, he had said nothing had happened between them. Yet she couldn’t shake those lingering doubts that there was something he wasn’t telling her.  
  
Fortunately, she had plenty to keep her mind occupied with a busy workday and a family to lead. Yet as the morning went on, things seemed… different.  
  
By mid-morning, she was certain of it. Something was definitely off. It was a feeling more than anything, no hard evidence besides a strange tension whenever she walked into the workshop, a slight hush different from the usual quiet of a family busy at work. Maybe it was the fact that none of them could meet her eyes that made her so suspicious.  
  
That suspicion only grew when she went into the back around noon and found them all huddled together and talking in low voices.  
  
“-can’t be true.”  
  
“-how similar she sounds to Imelda? If there was anyone—“  
  
“Should we ask him first? I wouldn’t want to—“  
  
“What is going on?” Imelda said loudly, putting her hands on her hips as her family leapt up with guilty faces.  
  
“Nothing!” Oscar said, panicked.  
  
“Just taking a quick break,” said Felipe.  
  
“But we’ll get back to work right now,” Julio said with faux cheerfulness as he went to his polishing station.  
  
“What were you all talking about?” Imelda said, squinting at them as they looked away nervously.  
  
“Uh…”  
  
“Shoes?”  
  
Her eyes caught something behind Rosita’s back.  
  
“What is that?”  
  
“Oh!” Rosita squeaked, and only held it tighter to her skirt. “Oh this? It’s nothing! Just another, uh…”  
  
Imelda strode forward and grabbed the thing: a curled up magazine. The room went deadly quiet as she looked at the front page that brazenly proclaimed:  
  
_Héctor Y La Amante_  
  
_Amante_? Imelda thought with a stab of pain. A lover? Héctor had a _lover_?  
  
There was a crude drawing of two skeletons gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes. One was undoubtedly Héctor, and the other a beautiful skeleton with dark curling hair, a blouse slipping low over her shoulder bones, and her hand caressing his cheek. And even though it was just a sketch, her face bore the look of a seductress.  
  
Surely it couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be…  
  
Her eyes skimmed over the words as her heart sank…  
  
_There is a general impression that Héctor Rivera spent his death alone, merely biding his time until his family came to the Land of the Dead, remaining chaste and faithful to his beloved wife._  
  
_Dear reader, the truth is far more scandalous!_  
  
_A century ago, Héctor Rivera was but a young husband when he arrived in Shantytown, supposedly missing his wife for all those years. But it would seem he found another woman to keep him company._ _During his time living in a hotbed of criminals and vagabonds, our supposed hero met a young woman named Aida. And not just any woman, but a known and shameless whore!_  
  
_In her life she was a camp follower during the Revolution, and it seems she continued to ply her trade even after death. Not only that- this woman was more than just a lowly puta, but also the owner and madam of a whorehouse in Shantytown. Some even say that Héctor himself was, and still is, a partial owner. Family man indeed! Perhaps he is not so deserving of our pity._  
  
_Numerous witnesses attest that the Héctor and this woman were very close, living together for decades, sharing not only a home but even sharing a bed! It is all the more remarkable that Héctor would be with this woman, since Héctor was responsible for the burning and destruction of her original home, soon after meeting her. Although, as penance, he gifted her with a new one- very generous! Perhaps a bit overmuch for a mere puta, but might be some indication of the high esteem he held her. It has been said that they were incredibly open with each other, in words and deeds, and no secrets lay between them. Perhaps nothing else lay between them, either._  
  
_So much for being a devoted husband!_  
  
_Yet, as close as they are, it sounds like she may have been a dangerous woman, and not just for his marriage vows. We have uncovered stories of her as a violent, shrewish woman, physically attacking him, and even attempting to drown him (quite the impossible task, of course). Clearly an unstable sort! This woman even helped him commit crimes, including robbing from other almost-Forgotten, even stealing bones from fellow nearly-departed souls, and living with other undesirable sorts._  
  
_Does Héctor’s dear wife know what kind of company he has been keeping?_  
  
_Perhaps she would not be too surprised. Aida has been described as having a fiery temper and being stubborn, intimidating, and hot-headed… all the more apt, considering the same words could describe his wife. Makes you wonder what his type is. _Héctor and this woman_  apparently were quite the musical duo, as he early on taught her how to play guitar and they often played together (in more ways than one, it would seem). Witnesses even suggest that she and Héctor had no qualms about walking around in bare bones- shameless, indeed!_  
  
_Despite being Forgotten many years ago, it is said that Héctor still keeps mementos of her from their shared, secret life together…_  
  
She skimmed the rest and could feel her family watching her, and was careful to school her expression.  
  
“I’m sure none of it is true,” she said dismissively, rolling up the magazine and gripping it hard in her fist, squeezing until her bones grated against each other.  
   
“How can you be sure?” Victoria said, with a challenging lift of her eyebrow.  
   
“And it’s like you said,” her brother noted.  
   
“We don’t actually know anything about after he died,” Felipe finished.  
   
That was true, but Imelda didn’t want to think about it at the moment.  
   
“Until I talk to him, I don’t want to hear anything more about these awful rumors. Understood?” she said sternly, daring any of them to argue.  
   
Without another word, without waiting to hear a response, she went back to the front of the shop, still gripping the rolled up magazine, her mind filled with a gray fog that thudded like a heartbeat. The crude, spiteful little article had managed to touch each of her fears about Héctor.  
   
How much of the article was true? Any of it? It seemed damning, and she found her hands were shaking. Perhaps she was finally getting her answer to what he had been doing all that time. Would he really have found another woman to warm his bed? Could he have fallen in love with another? And worse, a whore? A madam of a whorehouse? He wouldn’t have been so vulgar, not so openly at least. Right?  
   
No. It had to be fake. Just rumors meant to harm him. At the very least, it was certainly exaggerated. Surely not all of it could be true.  
   
Unable to help herself, she opened it up again to the rough sketch of his supposed infidelity, the half-lidded eyes of each of them. It reminded her of how he had looked at that other woman- Maris. Was it such a stretch that there might be others like her? Of course, he had said there was nothing between them. And she had decided to believe him. At least that was what she had said. But the fears, the anxiety, couldn’t be quelled.  
   
Customers came and went, plus two reporters trying to pass themselves off as customers, but whenever her mind had a moment’s peace it returned to the gnawing worry… had Héctor been unfaithful? He had promised her that there had never been anyone else, but then she would remember how his face lit up when that young woman had thrown herself into his arms, the way he had smiled and laughed and held her hand.

Occasionally she would make the mistake and skim through the article, trying to itemize all of the things that she would need to ask him, and there was a great deal. She debated on writing out a list for when he arrived, but that was an altogether bad idea. Besides, she couldn't bring herself to write any of them down. Strangely, though, it wasn’t the vulgar parts of the article that most bothered her. Surely he wasn’t so brazen as to openly share a home and with a whore, she argued to herself. The whorehouse thing was also ludicrous, far too outrageous to be true.  
   
No, the things that twisted her heart were smaller, like a persistent bug bite. She realized it was the music that hurt her the most, like always.  
   
When they had been young, he had taught Imelda how to play guitar. He’d been nothing but a gangly, ragged boy, always hungry and covered in dust from the road, and always beaming whenever their eyes met. He had made her feel like no one else ever could. So often the two of them would be discovered perching on benches and fountain edges as he led her fingers over the strings. It had been one of the things that made her fall in love with him.  
   
Had he really done the same with this other woman? That, more than anything, made her uneasy. She could so readily imagine it: her young husband beside a beautiful, eager woman, looping his arm over her as their fingers intertwined over the strings, twitching together over the frets, sitting so very close. Had he smiled at her with the same proud love in his eyes?  
   
Could he have fallen in love with her? With this other woman?  
   
After all, Imelda had only known him for a few years, would it be such a stretch that he might move on and love another?  
   
The clock on the wall slowly ticked by, and she waited and waited for Héctor to arrive and then, hopefully, hopefully, assure her that the magazine was nothing but lies and cruel rumors.  
   
Surely it couldn’t all be true…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Imelda… this does not look good. Hopefully she can clear things up with Héctor. These tabloids are so much fun! I don’t know if I got the tone quite right- to be honest I have very little experience with these kinds of magazines. Probably not too surprising.
> 
> I’m just glad we’re past chapters 4 and 5! This is when we really start getting to the fun part of the story, in my opinion. 
> 
> So for the next chapter, I initially had one posted and belatedly realized I hadn't been conveying what I wanted to, so it's getting a rewrite. Just pretend it didn't happen, and the real version will be up soon.  
> Update- revised chapter 7 is now up!


	7. Lingering Doubts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imelda has some questions. Hector doesn't provide the best answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… after I published chapter 7 I realized that I hadn’t been able to convey what I wanted to (probably because I know what’s gonna happen and that really skewed how I perceived my own writing) but it was a good learning experience.  
> Ended up reworking this chapter a lot, then deleting it all, and then doing it again. Not sure if this is any worse or better than before, but I gotta move on so we can get to the fun stuff!  
> If you've already ready the earlier version, don't stress about reading this.  
> Thank you to everyone who commented on the first version- it seriously helped a lot ;)

Imelda found herself waiting for her husband. Again.  
  
The clock on the wall slowly ticked the seconds away, and there was still no sign of Héctor. It was possible he wouldn’t even show that day, and then what? He was not an easy man to find. Once again she forced herself to focus on the accounting book in front of her, her pencil tapping in the margin. Against her better judgment, her eyes again fell to the magazine that her family had accidentally brought to her attention that morning.

 _Héctor Y La Amante_.

  
No. It couldn’t be true.  
  
Her eyes flashed back to the orderly numbers on the page. There were purchases of cowhide and rubber, more than last month which was promising, plus a new Oblong Punches that Julio had requested. There was a small fee for the mechanic to come in and fix the Singer sewing machine. Then there was… there was the...  
  
But what if it _was_ true?  
  
She slumped over the counter and pinched the bridge of her nose. Why was she doing this again? Doubting him, just like before. But then, for so many years, that had been her main belief for why he never came home, thinking that he had run off with another woman. Some nights she lay awake wondering whose bed he was sleeping in, and had imagined him embracing a beautiful, shadowy woman, singing sweet words into her ear. Sometimes, on very lonely nights, she imagined much worse.  
  
That had been wrong; she knew that finally. But those fears had wormed their way into her heart long ago, and there they had festered. That cruel article had only made them flare up, burning and writhing within her. It didn’t help that the one time she had brought it up, they had been interrupted by his pretty friend, Maris. Thinking of the loving way they had looked at each other made her hand clench tighter around the pencil, her jaw tightening.   
  
Héctor had said nothing had happened between him and Maris, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something _had_  happened. Something Héctor wasn’t saying. Maybe it had been just a small drunken affair, a small mistake many years past. That alone would have been painful but forgivable. But then to see him still so close to her... all the fears of when she was a young woman returned so fast, so easily. Back then, she had even questioned whether Héctor had ever truly loved her, or if she had been a foolish girl too enamored to see the truth. She didn't want to go back to that: to believing the worst of him, to not trusting him. Still, she was surprised just how much it could still hurt after so long. And after all, it had been a very, very long time apart...  
  
A solitary figure walked past the shop window, and something leapt in her chest. But it wasn’t him, and she sank back down, cursing herself for being so ridiculous. She wasn’t a young girl anymore; she couldn’t act like this. It was not the time for weakness, especially with her whole family watching her closer than ever. For perhaps the first time, they were looking at her with either worry or pity in their eyes, and she couldn't bear that. She had to be strong.

Her eyes fell again to the magazine, and she turned it over so she didn’t have to see that awful cover. But it didn't stop the echoing whispers in her mind. Could he have fallen in love with another? Could she trust him to tell the truth?  
  
_If you loved him, you would have listened._  
  
She bowed her head, closing her eyes and trying to ignore the pain in her heart. This was her chance to do it right. She owed it to him. To both of them.  
  
“Buenos dias!” a familiar voice called out, and she was startled to see Héctor walking into the shop, cheerful as ever and apparently none the wiser to what everyone was reading about him.  
  
“Afternoon, Héctor,” Imelda said coolly, folding over the thin binder, her mind surprisingly calm at seeing him. Relief and wariness twisted inside her.  
  
“Wow, long day at the shop?” he asked, his grin fading when Imelda didn’t smile back. “Hey, something happen?”  
  
“No, it’s nothing, just…” She glanced back at the workshop, aware of the sudden quiet from beyond the open doorway. “Will you walk with me?”  
  
“Sure, of course,” he said, clearly confused. 

She put away her accounting book, and her eyes lingered on the magazine for a moment before she tucked it into her apron, just before Rosita came and took her spot at the counter. Imelda noticed that she wouldn’t look at either of them, and wondered if Héctor picked up on it as well. They went out the front door and walked down the little street and coming to the open space that passed for a park, neither speaking a word the whole way. The place was quiet and nearly empty, just what she had hoped for, yet Imelda didn't immediately speak. Her whole self bristled with anxiety and fear, and she realized she was afraid of whatever he might say. What if it was true? Or what if he denied it and she didn't believe him? No, she had promised herself she would trust him, she just had to remember that. 

“All right, what happened?” Héctor said, stepping closer and putting a hand on her shoulder. “You definitely look upset about something. Are you ok? Is this because of Maris? My uh... the girl from a few days ago? I realize that that looked really bad, but—“  
  
“No. It’s not that,” she said quickly, deciding not to mention how close he was to the heart of the matter, and felt a twinge of anger towards him for mentioning the name of that other woman.  
  
“Then what?”  
  
At first, she didn’t answer, strangely restless. She moved to a little wooden bench, painted blue and silver, and sat down, trying to think how best to approach this. All that time spent thinking about when he would arrive, and she hadn't planned for any of it. Héctor sat down beside her, waiting patiently, and still she kept quiet. Absurdly she found that she afraid to bring it up at all, afraid that her worst fears would only be confirmed. But one way or another, she needed to know the truth. Otherwise, they might never be able to move forward.  
  
“Héctor… does the name ‘Aida’ mean anything to you?”  
  
He jumped at the name, before blinking at her in shock. “Eh? What, uh, what do you mean?”  
  
“Aida. Do you know of… of anyone by that name?” She watched him closely, and felt something tighten around her heart.  
  
“Well, uh… sure," he said, lowering his tensed shoulders and looking confused. "One of my friends was named Aida, actually. A good friend. Why, uh… why do you ask?”  
  
Imelda took out the magazine and handed it to him. As soon as he saw it there was a strange flash across his face, a slight widening of his eyes. Then he frowned, squinting hard at it before finally looking over to her.  
  
“What is this?” he asked, without a trace of humor.  
  
“Read it.”  
  
She tried not to fidget while he opened it to the earmarked page, his eyes flitting over the words. As he read a deep frown settled on his face. Then he began to mutter, almost too soft to hear.

“Well, that’s not quite… wait, what?...  _What_? That’s… Well, I suppose…” Then he gave a little laugh and began to smile. “Guess that’s… eh, it’s a stretch but… ha! Shameless indeed...”  
  
Finally he sat up straight, his hands dropping to his lap.  
  
“Huh. They really think Aida was my lover. That’s… wow.”  
  
“So who was she?”  
  
“My roommate,” Héctor said as if it was obvious. “Or, well, I was her roommate, since I was the one who moved in with her.”  
  
“You mean to tell me that you really lived with this woman?”   
  
“Yeah, it wasn’t a secret or anything. And it wasn’t just me, there were a few of us living there. Actually, it’s strange. They don’t mention, uh…” He looked down at the paper, glanced at her, then shook his head. “Ah, never mind. But yeah, we lived together.”  
  
“But you two weren’t… together?”  
  
Héctor laughed. “No, no, no! Oh, absolutely not. I was married, and she was, uh… not interested. In any case, she was in love with someone else, so it was a double no. Also just... no.”  
  
“So you didn’t actually share a bed?” She pressed him, remembering her nightmarish visions of him lying in bed with another woman, their bodies pressed tight. “That wasn’t true?”  
  
“Oh, as for that... well, I mean, not... not too often. But uh, sometimes. It kinda just happened.”  
  
She stared at him, shocked not only by his words but at the casual way he said it, with only an embarrassed little shrug.  
  
“What? You are not telling me you really shared a bed with another woman? And a whore?”  
  
“Hey, hey, it wasn’t like that. She wasn’t, I mean, it depends how you define it but uh… really, we just slept together. Wait! No! That’s not what I meant! I mean we really did just, you know… sleep. Near each other.”  
  
He ran a hand down his face, hunching forward. “Oh, I am not explaining this well. But I promise there was nothing between us. Not like that, anyway. We were friends.”  
  
She forced herself to take a deep breath, straightening her back. Friends, he said. It certainly sounded like more than that. That article had certainly made it sound like a lot more than that. And he had said the same thing about Maris…  
  
“You… you must have been good friends, then,” she said, trying to keep a level head about this, but he was not making it easy. “What about the rest of it? That’s not true, right?”  
  
“Uh…” Héctor glanced at the magazine in his lap. “I guess it’s pretty true. Mostly. I mean, it’s completely wrong and really rude but yeah, it’s kinda right.”  
  
Imelda looked down at her clasped hands. That was far, far from comforting. But Héctor’s mild attitude helped calm her. He didn’t seem upset, or ashamed. Not overly so.  
  
“So, how… how long were you…” She bit her lip and reconsidered. “How long did you live together?”  
  
Héctor let out a long breath, squinting upwards.  
  
“Let’s see, I moved to Shantytown in… ’25? Somewhere around there. Then we met soon after, and then uh... and then some things happened, and soon after that we decided to live together. Although, frankly we only lived in that house for a few months until it burned down. Which was, uh… kinda my fault. After that, we were homeless for a while. That was fun.”  
  
"And how exactly was that your fault?” she said, rolling her eyes with a faint smile. Even when they were young he had always been rather leggy and coltish, swinging his arms and legs about as if unsure what to do with them. It wouldn’t have been a huge shock if he had accidentally set something on fire. Maybe knocked over a candle, or flicked away a glowing match and didn’t pay attention, or forgot a candle late at night.   
  
“Eh, there was this guy- actually someone I used to live with- and he and I got in a fight and so he retaliated by burning her house down. The jerk,” Héctor pouted, crossing his arms.  
  
“Wait, what?” she said sharply, bolting upright and staring hard. “You… how… you got into  _another_ fight?”  
  
“Ok, but this guy deserved it! Really, he, this guy was…” He was suddenly almost speechless with anger. Then he took a deep breath and lowered his hands with a deep exhale. “He was better off Forgotten, I’ll leave it at that.”  
  
Imelda was stunned at the sudden change, and the cold, furious look on his face. For him to actually wish for someone to be Forgotten, and especially when he had been so close to the Final Death himself, was disturbing. The man she had married, the man she thought she knew, would never wish that on anyone.

  
“What on earth did you get in a fight about?”  
  
“Uh… that’s… so it started because, um…” He frowned, looking away and apparently thinking hard. “Honestly, that's, uh, that's really complicated. The short of it was that this guy didn’t like any of us. Oh, and he was also mad because I stole something from him. Except… hang on, no!” he said, sitting up straight and holding up a finger. “That shouldn’t have counted because it wasn’t his to begin with! He stole it first, and I just stole it back.”  
  
“What!” Imelda said, growing more alarmed. “What did you steal?”  
  
“A rib.”  
  
“ _What?_ He stole your  _rib?_ ”  
  
“No, no, it wasn’t mine,” Héctor said as if that should have been obvious.  
  
“Then… whose rib was it?”  
  
“Uhhhh… let’s not worry about that,” he said, pointedly looking away.  
  
She was only barely aware of her mouth hanging open as Héctor tapped his fingers on the bench nervously. There was so much wrong with what he was saying, she didn’t know where to even begin. He stole a rib? And got into a fight? And he stole a  _rib_?  
  
“Yeah,” he said mildly at her lack of response. “There was a lot of stuff happening back then.”  
  
She glanced at the magazine still in his hand. They were getting off topic. Was Héctor deliberately distracting her in order to not talk about his ‘friend?’ His supposed non-lover. Who he was living with. For years. Sharing a  _home_.  
  
“All right, that aside, what’s this part about, then?” Imelda said, leaning closer and jabbing a finger at the paper, while Héctor squinted at the type. “How you two walked around without clothes?”  
  
“Ohhh… that. Yeah, uh, ok, about that. We didn’t want to get them dirty, so we just… sometimes didn’t wear them. Although we usually kept our pants on, to be honest. Or skirt, in her case. Also sometimes we had to, uh, share… clothes.” He grimaced a little, then went on before Imelda could ask why the  _hell_ were they sharing clothes. “It wasn’t often! And usually for a… decent reason. It just wasn’t that weird for us. I mean, the second day we met we ended up taking all our clothes off anyway. After that we just got really… ehh, comfortable, you could say.”  
  
"Wait… what?” Imelda looked at him, shocked. “What reason could you possibly have for, for…”  
  
She couldn’t even bring herself to say the words and grew flustered at the sudden mental image of Héctor and a beautiful woman, side by side and grinning at each other in bare skin. Then she remembered they’d be in bare bones, which somehow made it worse.  
  
Héctor bit his lip. "Uh, you see... we had to go fishing—“  
  
"You stripped to go  _fishing_?"  
  
"Swimming! I meant swimming, heh...” He gave a nervous laugh as she glared at him. “I’m serious! It was pretty funny in hindsight. Terrifying, but, funny. Ok, mostly terrifying. We were complete strangers and already half-naked, and Aida kept yelling at me to jump in, so I did. That’s, uh, actually what they meant about me almost drowning. To be fair though, that was my fault for not knowing how to swim.”  
  
She just gaped at him, while he only looked mildly embarrassed. She had no idea what he was talking about and was growing increasingly frustrated. It wasn’t even possible to drown- they were already dead! But, more importantly, he was saying it was all true. She looked away, trying not to jump to conclusions, but he was saying that most of it was true. Perhaps worse… she had a terrible feeling he was hiding something. Again.  
  
"Imelda, I know this sounds crazy, and I'm doing a terrible, terrible job explaining it, but Aida was only a friend. A good friend, but—“  
  
"You were living with her for  _years_. You shared a  _bed_." She wished her voice wouldn't tremble so much.   
  
"Yes, that's... true. But just for sleeping, and it was better than the alternative. When I first met her, I was living with a bunch of criminals. I mean some really terrible people."  
  
She shot him a withering look. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"  
  
"Uh, well, yeah?" he said defensively. "I wasn't living there long. Just... Just a few months. Believe me, I was desperate to get out of there."  
  
_So desperate you jumped into another woman's bed_ , Imelda thought with a sickening fury.   
  
"Imelda?"  
  
"I... I need to think. I know you were alone for years but this..."  
  
He stood suddenly, surprising her before he knelt down and took her hands in his. "Imelda, in all my life, and death, I have never loved another woman but you. I swear it. Please… believe me.”  
  
She looked into his eyes, and they were true and earnest. A variety of emotions swarmed within her, familiar lingering doubts and fears she had carried throughout her life, and well into her death. That he had stopped loving her. That he had abandoned their family for another. That she would get hurt again.   
  
Except she had promised herself, promised both of them, that they would give this a second chance. With a deep breath, she forced those worries down.  
   
“You swear it?” she asked, and something flickered in his soft, brown eyes.  
   
I swear it,” he said, gripping her hands tight.  
  
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, keenly aware of the solid presence of him, something she had missed for so many years.  
  
“All right. I trust you."  
  
She owed him that much. And perhaps one day she might even believe the words she had just spoken without being weighed down by those fears.   
  
"Thank you,” he said with a grateful sigh, and looked especially old and worn as he pushed himself off one knee and slowly sat beside her again, glancing at the magazine on her lap. “You know, someday I'd like to tell you the real story, not that garbage they wrote. It’s… it’s actually pretty funny. Sort of. Ok, not really but—“  
   
“No, that's all right.” She didn't think she could handle him talking so much about this woman, about their time together, especially with the pain still so sharp in her heart. In truth, she hoped he would forget her, and focus on his life, and remember that he was speaking to his wife.  
  
"It's getting late," she said, standing up and smoothing back her hair. "I need to get back to the shop." Frankly, she also needed some time away from him. Just a little time to wrap her mind around everything.  
  
"Shall I walk you back?" he asked, also standing, with a cautious, overly-polite look that annoyed her for some reason.  
  
"No, I'll be fine." She could walk back just fine on her own. Besides, she wasn’t keen to have her family also find out that the article was true and have it confirmed by him.  
  
He only nodded, not pushing the subject. "If it's all right, I'd like to come visit in the next day or so. Maybe in the evening?"  
  
"That'd be fine," she said quickly before she could second-guess herself, and became aware of the growing chill between them. Had she been too harsh? Subtly she glanced at him, his head bowed and a somber look on his face. Then he met her eyes, and she saw again the gentle smile she had so missed for all those years.  
  
"Then, good night Imelda." He leaned forward and gave her a tender kiss on her cheek.   
  
Her lips twitched up a little, her heart softening a fraction more. "Good night."  
  
As he walked away, still with a noticeable limp, there was a pang of regret for seeing him leave. She noticed the low bend of his head, and something about it was hauntingly familiar. But he would be back soon, and next time she would be in a better frame of mind, and they would move forward. No matter what, he was still the man she had married.  
  
Yet… those old doubts lingered.  
  
There had been so much time apart, and there was so much unknown between them. He had lived for years with another woman, compared to their five years of marriage. It reminded her yet again that she still knew so little about his afterlife, and every new thing she learned made her afraid of what else he was hiding, and she suspected that despite his assurances, he was hiding something.  
   
Walking back alone, her mind filled with thoughts of him, she wished, desperately, that she could simply open her heart again, and trust him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter hit of a bit of a snag but it's being worked out, so hopefully not too long.  
> Originally this was supposed to be a funny chapter, haha... whoops.  
> These two still have a whole lot to do before they finally reconnect, I'll say that.


	8. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the past, Héctor continues to struggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS- if you think this story is going to be all about Héctor and Aida… don't worry.  
> (I'd like to say trust me... but that's probably bad advice)

December 1924  
  
“Ay amigo, you off to see your whore again? Bit early for you, ain’t it?”  
  
“What?” Héctor yelped, spinning around and nearly dismembering another skeleton with the guitar in his hand as he moved towards the stairway.  
  
Alvaro looked up at him fondly from where he slouched against a wall. “Yeah, man! Every night you run off for a few hours, always same time. What else would you be doing? She must be cute, eh? Does she have any friends?”  
  
“What? No, no! There isn’t anyone. I’m married. I’m very happily married. I’m going to work.” He lifted his guitar case as proof, annoyed when the other man simply laughed.  
  
“Heh, whatever you say!” Alvaro tilted his hat over his eyes against the late afternoon glare, but it didn’t hide his broad grin.  
  
Héctor considered arguing, saying that _of course_ there isn’t another woman, that would be ridiculous. Well, maybe not as ridiculous as he would have once thought. He knew by then that skeletons could, apparently, have sex, although he still wasn’t sure about the details of it. Every time he tried to imagine it he was too distracted by the dumb sounds of clacking and the fact there was no skin or... fleshy bits. The few unlucky times he had accidentally walked in on two interlocked skeletons, he had hurried away very quickly, thinking that it was an awful lot of bones, and that skeletons were _weird_.  
  
But instead of trying to persuade Alvaro that, no, of course he wasn’t cheating on his wife, the thought of which made him furious and somewhat queasy, he turned and stomped down the stairs, grumbling under his breath.  
  
“As if I’d… I told him I’m married! He knows that… and why is that the first thing he thinks of?”  
  
On the other hand, perhaps he shouldn't be too shocked. Early on he had noticed he was one of the very few men to leave the house on a regular basis and wasn’t sure if anyone else there bothered with work or going much to the Land of the Remembered. There was no real need for work or money, since there was no real need for food or medicine or even rent. Yet for all that, he noticed that food and alcohol appeared regularly enough. But he couldn’t just sit around doing nothing and wait for his next chance to cross the Marigold Bridge, or he’d go crazy.  
   
Once outside he saw that it was later than he thought, the thin winter sun casting a cool light over everything. He passed two men smoking and talking on the verandah who ignored him as he left the house. He refused to call it home; it was just the place where he slept. That was all. And he hated it.

After such a short time after his arrival in Shantytown, any lingering optimism he might have had was thoroughly shattered. No matter what anyone might say, he knew in his heart he didn’t belong there with the worn, gray souls in their worn, gray world. Maybe on the next Dia de Los Muertos he would be able to cross and see his family again. Hopefully. Assuming anyone actually cared that he had died. Imelda and Coco must surely be missing him...

As he walked along the broad paths towards the worn steps of the pyramid leading out, he passed a few women grinding their maize for the evening meal, laughing and talking animatedly with each other. With a broad grin and a hopping step he called out, “Buenos tardes, Señoras!”  
  
The women glanced up at him and the smiles vanished, all of them going silent. He kept walking, his own grin dropping as he turned back to the main road, and felt that familiar chill, the stares that seemed to pinch between his shoulder blades. He should have been used to it, but he wasn’t. Alvaro said all the men of the house got that kind of reaction, and to not worry about it. He tried to ignore it. It didn’t work very well.  
  
He didn’t belong there.  
  
Therefore, while he was by custom supposed to live in that miserable underworld, most of his days were spent wandering around the bright land of the Remembered, hoping to find some work as a mariachi. That afternoon he went to his favorite spot, Plaza de Flora, and was mildly disappointed to see a full mariachi band already playing on stage, the open space filled with dancers and party-goers. If he wanted to earn any money, he would need to find somewhere else, maybe at the Marigold Station, although he didn’t hold out much hope for earning much. Most days he was lucky to get a few pesos, and those seemed mainly tossed to him out of pity. He had thought that with a real guitar in his hand he could choose music again as a career. But he didn’t look the part, his guitar was sad and beaten, and most people wouldn’t spare him a second glance.  
  
Either way, he had to keep trying. But, for a few minutes, he let himself relax, leaning on his guitar case and watching the dancers spinning with swirls of colors and shouts of laughter. Everyone seemed so happy, so strangely full of life. Even though they were all dead, they didn’t seem to mind. It made him wonder.

“Excuse me, Señor?”

Héctor jumped, shocked to see a young-looking woman standing at his side who also lurched back.  
  
“Ah... perdóname, I didn’t mean to surprise you,” she said, a little shocked herself at his sudden reaction, and speaking perhaps louder than was called for over the noise of the dancing.  
  
“Oh, ah… that’s all right. What, uh... what can I do for you?” He glanced at his guitar case propped under his elbow and wondered if maybe he’d be lucky enough to get a job inquiry.  
  
“I was hoping to ask a favor of you. Well, for my friend.” She turned her head, gesturing behind her. “She’s too shy to ask you herself, but she would… she wondered if you would like to dance with her.”  
  
“Eh?” He blinked at her, almost slipping and knocking his guitar to the ground. “She what?”  
  
“My friend. Wants. To dance. With _you_." Her voice grew a little louder as people broke out into applause as the song ended, before dropping her voice to a normal tone and volume. “She’s just over there. See? By the orange and blue alebrije, yeah?”  
  
Héctor looked to where she was pointing and saw a probably pretty-looking skeleton standing by the dance floor, her hands buried in the depths of her flowing skirt the color of a morning glory, purple and white. She glanced up at Héctor then quickly down, apparently quite shy.  
  
“Uhh...” Something ached in his chest, so strong he almost felt sick. But that was impossible because he was dead and the dead don’t get sick. Yet the feeling only grew stronger.  
  
“Just one dance,” the woman said when he didn’t manage to think of any words in his head other than reminding himself that he was dead and everything about this was wrong.  
  
“Why, uh… why me?”  
  
She looked surprised but gave a little shrug. “You seemed nice. And you’re about her age, possibly. And um… you seem, well… young. Like us.”  
  
Looking around, he saw what she meant. Most of the other skeletons around them had gray or white hair or stood hunched over, or just gave the impression of having lived a full life, unlike them. They were some of the only young skeletons there, and that struck him painfully. How had she died so young? Both of them?  
  
“Look, Señor,” she said, catching his attention. “We’re both um… new here. To all of this. And uh… we’re both still getting used to being, you know… _this_.” She gestured to her skeletal face, to her body, to the sharp curve where her stomach used to be.  
  
“Oh,” he said, understanding sinking in.  
  
The woman went on a quick, hushed voice, as if anxious to tell someone these things, to let a little bit of the weight off her chest. For some unknown reason, she had chosen him.  
  
“It’s just, it’s odd being bones. We don’t… we don’t feel human, you understand? I just want her to feel normal. Just a little hint of being ourselves, and so she asked if you could, mmm, if you could just dance with her. Let her feel like a woman, just a little bit.”  
  
“Oh,” he said again, feeling even more awful.  
  
“She’s very sweet,” the woman said, almost beseeching him, wringing her hands and he realized they were gloved. Perhaps to hide the sight of the bones.  
  
“I… I’m sure she is. And I mean no offense, but I… I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m sure she’s nice, and I wish I could help but I… I just can’t.”  
  
It was true. He felt that if he were to actually step onto that dance floor with the skeleton in the purple skirt, he might break apart. Mentally or physically, he wasn’t quite sure. But he knew he couldn’t handle that kind of pain.  
  
God, he missed Imelda.  
  
“I wish you both the best of luck. Truly.” He felt almost unbearably guilty, and took a small step away, dimly aware of a new song beginning to play. “I’m sure there’s plenty of other handsome young men to dance with her. But I just… I can’t. Not now. I’m… I’m very sorry.”  
  
A quick glance at her showed the fallen face, the muted look of pain, and he thought it was an odd reflection of his own. He took his guitar and left, wishing he hadn’t gone there. Perhaps it was just bad timing, he reasoned. Or bad luck.   
  
He thought he had been getting better. Most days he would be ok, the pain still there but bearable, like a persistent headache. But then it would suddenly flare up and he would be almost sick with missing his family and home. Little things would set him off. Dumb, little things like seeing Imelda's favorite pan dulce in a window, or a purple hair ribbon, or hearing a woman singing.  
  
He thought he would be ok. It was just dancing, and he had been watching. Yet the pain had struck fast and hard, deep in his gut. How was he supposed to do this without Imelda? The noises from the Square faded away as he walked, replaced by the muted sounds of a city settling in for the night, or perhaps waking up, with song and laughter and calls to friends. Sounds of families. Finally, he stopped along a street he didn’t recognize and leaned a hand against a wall, ignoring the skeletons moving past him, and let himself breathe. Or pretend to breathe. It was easier to pretend if he didn’t look down and see his own ribcage moving.   
  
Where could he go? He couldn’t return to the house, not like that. Not when he felt so thin in spirit, like he might drift apart. Then he remembered about his one tiny refuge in that world: the abandoned place. It wasn't much but it gave him a goal, enough that he was able to focus and felt himself settle. With that aim in mind, he hoisted up his guitar and went to find a familiar street, hoping he wouldn't get lose his way again before nightfall.

Fortunately, he was less lost than he imagined and it wasn't long before he was walking down the old stone steps and going to the western edge of Shantytown. The sun was nearly touching the horizon, and it was growing steadily colder as the wind picked up off the surrounding water that he walked along, past the scattered ancient buildings, many with missing roofs or collapsed into piles of rubble. It was a quiet, lonely place that felt somehow more haunted than the rest, which was perhaps redundant. He had never seen anyone or anything out there except vague movements in the distance that stopped when he turned to look. But he breathed better out there, and felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.  
  
Eventually he came to his usual little pier. There was still rope on the end beams, moldy and black as if there had once been a boat tied up, or perhaps even a home. Whatever it was, it was long gone. He sat down, feeling the old waver a little beneath him, and pulled out a small journal from his pocket bag. Opening to a new page, he wrote,  
  
_Mi Amor,_  
  
Then he paused. What could he tell her? He wasn’t sure if she would ever read any of it, but if nothing else it made her and Coco feel closer, kept them bright in his memory. He went to lick his pencil, remembered he had no tongue, and settled for tapping it against his chin before he thought of something reasonable.  
  
_Today I went to the plaza to play as usual, except there was already a band and couples were dancing the jota and even the jarabe. I wish you could have seen it. ~~I wish you could be here, but…~~_  
  
_I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to being dead. Maybe some people get over it faster than others. Maybe some never feel comfortable in these empty bodies._  
  
The pencil stopped writing as he looked at the hand holding it, at the hard white bones. He missed the look and feel of his skin, the callouses on his fingers, the faint scar on the back of his left knuckle, the warmth. He rolled his hand into a fist, hating the sight of it. His eyes went back to the page, trying to focus on the dark tip of the pencil and the quick creation of each letter.  
  
_I hope you’re all right. Maybe by the time you’re here, I’ll be used to everything and can help you figure it all out. Hopefully one day we can even dance again. I honestly don’t know if I could bear doing it with anyone else. ~~Guess that’s kinda sad?~~_  
  
_Do you still dance? Or sing? Do you ~~ever miss me~~ remember how we’d sing and dance in the kitchen with Coco? Is she getting too big for that? I wish I could hold her one more time. I wish I could go home._  
  
A long, low sigh escaped him as he stared at those last words. He didn’t know how many times he had written them, or some variation of. But he couldn’t go home. And even if he were to cross the Bridge someday, it wouldn’t be the same, watching his family from the wrong side of the veil.  
  
Little Coco would be almost eight in the living world. Over four years since he’d last seen her, and she probably would have grown a lot by then. But he was sure she would still be small enough that he could scoop her up and spin her like before. What he wouldn’t give for just one more day with them, all together in their little kitchen, with golden afternoon sun spilling in from the window. It was so real, he almost thought he could smell the familiar sweet-spicy waft of chiles poblanos, could hear the scuffling of feet on the wooden floorboards and Coco’s giggles as he hummed a little tune, holding one tiny hand in his own. He could almost feel it, it was so close...  
  
Then it was gone, and he was again sitting on an old wooden pier, alone at sunset. He clapped the little book shut, and put it back in his pouch.  
  
As the memory lingered he picked up his guitar and set it on his lap, looking up at the slowly rising moon as he gave a few tentative plucks. He wondered if it really was the same bright moon as in the Land of the Living, and wondered if Coco might be looking up at it as well. Did she still sing their song every night?   
  
“ _Recuérdame..._ ” He closed his eyes, remembering sitting beside Coco as he lulled her to sleep, like when she was little. “ _Hoy me tengo que ir mi amor_ …”

Like every night, he sang for her and hoped that somehow she might hear, that she would understand how much her Papá loved her, and missed her. He reached the final words, a faint whisper, and then let it trail away into silence.

Exhaustion pulled heavy on him, his hands limp on the taut strings of the guitar. But then he shook his head, and let his body shake all the way down his spine. He couldn't think like that. At least Imelda and Coco were alive, and had each other, and Imelda had her family. At least they were fine. They had to be. And one day he would get to see them again, he just had to be patient. In the meantime, even though he didn't have his family, he still had music, and felt himself smile. Things would be fine. He'd be ok.

The new-risen half-moon crept through the thin clouds as he strummed his guitar, trying to pin down a new tune with lyrics half-formed in his head, something about worlds apart and hands reaching across shadowy veils, and time spinning slowly. He felt better, the sharp pain from the dance once again numb and hidden. Out there in the light of the moon, he almost felt content. Then he felt it, same as always. 

Someone was watching him.  
  
He noticed it on the very first night there, a prickling along his neck. Perhaps it was simply an alebrije, he thought, and so ignored it. Then, two days after that, he thought he saw someone. There had been a chill in the air and he was tired, so he didn’t stay out as long as usual. But when he pulled himself up and turned around, he thought he saw a flicker of movement behind a building, but it was all clear when he went to look.  
  
Once he had mentioned it to Alvaro, and said that the place by the water might be haunted. But Alvaro had only laughed. Of course it was haunted, he had said, smiling without warmth. They were all ghosts, and soon they would disappear. Héctor remembered the look on his face at those words, and felt a chill, just as he had then. Alvaro was familiar with ghosts. Sometimes he would hear a woman’s wailing or the desperate cries of the man who hung from the same mesquite tree as him. Once Héctor awoke to him shaking his shoulder, frantic and gibbering about the soldiers over the hill. Come morning, he was bright and cheerful as ever, and neither spoke about what had happened. Nor any other morning after.  
  
They were all ghosts. One day they would disappear.  
   
A fresh shiver crept up his spine, and he became more acutely aware of the feeling of being stared at, of someone or something lurking in the shadows. He stopped playing with a harsh twang. Glancing around, the place seemed deserted, and he rubbed the back of his too-narrow neck to stop the uneasy feeling.  
   
“Is anyone there?” he called out, his eyes flickering left and right. But there was no response. He decided quickly that that was quite enough playing for the night, and that he should leave. He began carefully walking back over the loose walkway, just coming to the main path when something caught his attention, a strange shape he hadn’t noticed before. Did it just move? It didn't seem to fit with everything else around it, and he carefully crept closer, hand tight on the handle of his guitar case. It was almost too dark to see, hidden in the shadow of a rotten shack, but there was something odd about it. It almost looked like a hunched-over figure.  
   
“Hello?” he said softly, his eyes not leaving the thing. “Uh, is… is someone there?”  
   
Not a word of answer. Maybe it was just a bit of dark wood and he was becoming paranoid. Maybe he shouldn't be freaking out over every little shadow. Yet...  
   
He edged closer and reached out a cautious hand, when suddenly the figure leapt up and he screamed, flinging himself back and stumbling to the ground. He looked around, crab walking back, but instead of being attacked, the thing was instead sprinting down the path. And whatever it was... seemed to be wearing a skirt.  
   
Héctor sat up, chest heaving. "Wha-what the... Hey! You can’t just spy on me and run off like that, it’s weird!”  
   
To his shock, she actually stopped and spun about, the skirt flaring wide.  
   
“I’m not spying!” she shouted back, ludicrously indignant. “This is where I live! I can’t help if I hear you stomping past my house every night.”  
  
“What? Wait... wait, you live here? I thought this place was deserted.” He shakily stood up again, quickly looking up and down the dark shapes of houses, but didn’t see a single light. He never had.  
  
“That’s none of your business,” the woman said loudly.  
  
“What… ok, then.” He didn’t know what was happening. “Hey, uh... are you the one who’s been listening to me for the past couple weeks? Just... watching me?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
There was silence. Héctor blinked and was almost surprised she didn’t just vanish.  
  
“Oh,” Héctor said, feeling uncomfortable. “Ok, look, that’s weird—“  
  
“You’re the one stalking around in the middle of the night!”  
   
“I just wanted somewhere quiet to play music! I wasn't sneaking around, I just… I wanted someplace where I could be alone, is that so much to ask?" With a sigh he turned away, gazing about at the familiar open space and felt the wind blow colder. Maybe it was his fault. Even there in the emptiness, he wasn’t wanted. He ran a hand over his face as he sighed. 

“Ay mi... listen Señorita, I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble. If you don’t want me to play here, I can leave.”  
   
“N-no, it’s… it’s fine." She seemed like she was fiddling with the fabric of her skirt. "I didn't mean to spy on you. It's just that, I... I like that song you sing, I've never heard it before. It's really good. The one...  _Recuérdame?"_

He stiffened. She hard heard him? No one else was supposed to hear that song, not even Imelda. It was just for him and Coco. But this woman wouldn't have known that, he reminded himself, and bit back the retort in his throat. 

"It's a song I wrote. For my daughter. I... it's a promise between us. Just us." He said the last line a bit more forcefully than he intended, but that this strange woman had been listening all the while irked him. "I'd rather no one else hear it, to be honest."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, genuine and almost hurt. "I... I didn't know. I just heard your music and... I didn't know."

Silence met those words, and the twinge of anger in his heart fled. She sounded so... lonely. He gave a long look back at the dock, just visible in the thin light, and tried to imagine it. Had she heard him night after night and would come just to listen? Never saying a word? Why? Maybe she was alone in the world. Like him.

"I didn't mean to intrude," she said, making him turn. "I just... you can keep playing here, I won't bother you again." With that she turned to leave, looking smaller than before.

"Hey, wait!" he called out, making her lift her head. “You know, Señorita, you can come up here if you’d like, rather than hiding. I wouldn’t mind you listening. Well, ok except for just that one song. I, uh... it's always the first one I play, so after that, I don't mind. If you'd like."

There was a pause while she seemed to be thinking. Then she walked away without another word.  
  
“Ah, hang on! I didn’t mean to…”  
  
But she was gone, vanished into the darkness. Héctor stood there a long moment, staring at the now empty pathway and wondering if he had said the wrong thing. Or maybe just imagined it.  
  
Later that night he made a second entry into his journal by the light of a candle, just before going to sleep amidst the sound of snoring. And shouldn’t it be impossible to snore as a skeleton? Apparently not. He frowned blearily at his pencil, annoyed as tried to lick the tip until he remembered again that he couldn't. He was exhausted, but this was something he might have written to Imelda when he was on the road traveling, and he wanted to share it with her.  
  
_Real tired so I'll be quick, but funny thing happened tonight. Met this weird girl. Which doesn't sound so weird, but it was. Might have been a ghost, but I don’t think so. Still not sure if ghosts exist here or not, so that makes it more complicated. I think she’s been watching me? For weeks? I should probably be a little worried, but I’m too tired. It'll be fine, right? It doesn’t mean anything probably._

_G’night, mi amor._

The following night, he went back to the same, dark dock and played his guitar into the stillness, staring up at the familiar, white moon.  
  
Soon after, he felt a prickling on the back of his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It must take some time used to being dead. Some might take longer than others.
> 
> This chapter took me quite a while to finish. Really, just editing took the longest! I kept getting too distracted by the other fun stuff coming up (next chapter is a fun one. Kinda). Funny thing about this... it used to be one of the most important parts of my story, very very early on in the drafts before I knew what was actually going to happen. But I still think it's good to establish Hector's early life here, to better appreciate how much changes over time.
> 
> Next chapter: Ambushed (in which Hector is bad at interviews)


	9. Ambushed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up getting three times as long as I intended. Originally it was only going to be the final part of the chapter, but there's just so much fun stuff coming up that I wanted to mention here first.  
> Lots of hints in this one!
> 
> Enjoy Hector being shady! This boy needs some help...
> 
> Note: I just made a teensy little correction to something in chapter 3 that may or may not be important (depends on how you read it, honestly)  
> Thanks to BabyCharmander for helping beta this one!!

"That... maybe could have gone better,” Héctor said to himself, wandering home as the winter sun drifted towards the horizon. His shoulders hunched forward as his mind kept going back to his conversation with Imelda.

So she finally knew about Aida, he thought wearily, more frustrated than anything. Not like he had planned to keep it a secret, but he definitely hadn’t planned on telling her like _that_. And what was with that dumb article? Who wrote that? Who had he pissed off so much? All right, maybe that was a bad question.

At least it hadn’t mentioned the details of her death; that was a small consolation. Or that she had had a child. Then again, she had been very private about those matters. In fact, he wasn’t sure if anyone else knew those secrets. Not anymore, anyway.

Still, to actually state that Aida was his lover? That was uncalled for and certainly wasn’t going to help his renewed relationship with Imelda. Or the rest of the family, he thought as his shoulders slumped further, his head sinking towards his ribcage. What would they think? Had they all read the same article? Frankly, he still didn’t know any of them well enough to anticipate their reaction, and they didn’t know him. Not really. For most of their lives he was nothing but a no-good musician who had abandoned his family. Maybe they had even thought that he had left Imelda for another... Oh. Right. Duh. That could make things worse.

But at least Imelda believed him. That alone was invaluable- incredible! Even if she still seemed suspicious. Which… was reasonable, he reminded himself. More than reasonable. Aida herself had warned him of it years and years ago, so he should have seen this coming, but he still hadn't been ready. And he had managed to make things worse!

“Ah, stupid, stupid!” he said, hitting his head with his palm, accompanied by annoying ‘clacks.’

He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts he nearly went down the wrong street, walking faster when he heard his name spoken in eager, hushed voices nearby, not in the mood to sign any autographs, nor to get yelled at. As he skirted a corner with backward glances, he wondered if he should have mentioned to Imelda that she had, in fact, met Aida years earlier, albeit under a different name. He thought that was why she had brought up Aida in the first place. Except mentioning that little secret might only complicate things, and possibly make her angry at him again. It wasn’t like they had done anything bad- far from it! It was just… a bit shady.

One day he would tell Imelda the whole truth, he told himself, gnawing his lower lip bone. Eventually. Probably.

If he didn’t mess it all up before then.

“Señor Rivera!”

His head jerked up, then his whole body sagged at the sight of a group of skeletons lurking by the upper entrance to Shantytown.

“Ay, not this again,” he muttered under his breath, watching them hurry forward with their cameras and notepads. They often had the same questions, none of which he was keen on answering.

 _Do you maintain your argument that you were murdered by Ernesto de la Cruz?_ _Why did you never suspect it before?_

_What is the origin of the ‘chorizo’ theory of your death? How can you be certain it wasn't simply food poisoning?_

_What went through your mind when you discovered you had been poisoned by your best friend?_ _Do you plan to pursue legal action?_

_Why are you still living in Shantytown? Were you disowned by your family?_

They were terrible questions, and he was very bad at answering them.

“Héctor Rivera!" One man called out, racing ahead of the rest. "A few moments, _con permiso_.“

“No, not interested,” he said, striding forward without pause. “I’m just trying to get home, so will you—“

As he stepped around the man another moved to block him, holding up a small black recorder to his face.

“ _Señor_ , some quick questions—“

“I just sa—“

“-about some recent information that’s come to light about a particular friend of yours,” the man said in one quick breath. “Do you have any comments about your relationship with Aida?”

“No. No comment. Now will you leave me alone?” He was distracted by another skeleton jumping in front, while another hoisted up a camera with a bright flash that half-blinded him.

“Ay! What the—“

“Is it true you took Aida as your lover?” another called out.

“No!” he said loudly, blinking fast and holding up a hand.

“So was she simply a common whore?” said another.

“What? No! Don’t call her that.”

“What was her reason for living in Shantytown?” A woman said loudly, elbowing her way through the others. “Was she also disowned by her family?”

Héctor opened his mouth to reply, then shut it, unsure what to say, still blinking away spots. “She was, uh… she did have family. That was—“

“Did your wife know of your infidelity?”

“Wha- no! No, she… ugh!” With a groan he ground his head into his hands, dimly aware of another flash and pop of a camera.

“Or did she first find out with the publication of that article?”

“Now hang on.“ He was losing tracking of what was happening, as something tapped his back, making him turn around. He looked around and realized how many there were, and felt something cold shudder in his chest, and he shoved it down, glaring out at them as they pressed closer.

“Is that why you’re still living here in Shantytown? And living in your old lover’s home?”

“No! She's not- wait, that’s... I mean, I…” He stepped back, bumping into a shorter skeleton with glasses who looked keenly up at him.

“Did you love Aida?” she asked. An expectant hush fell as they watched him intently, all poised over their little books as another camera flashed and popped.

Héctor opened his mouth to again refute the accusation but then paused with a small grimace. “S-she was my friend. A good friend, all right?”

He watched them scribble away and wondered what they were writing. But what else could he say? There was a sudden, sharp pang of missing Aida. If she was there, what would she think?

“I’m not ashamed of her!” he said suddenly, standing taller. “Write that down all you want. She was a good person.”

There were some raised eyebrows, a few crooked grins that made Héctor nervous, but he wouldn’t take it back. He had promised. To both of them.

“Señor, can you elaborate on that?” someone asked.

“No.”

“All right, all right, no need to get testy, eh?” another man said with a humorless laugh. “So then… were there any other lovers?”

His eye twitched. “Aida wasn’t my lover. Now if you’ll all excuse me, I just want to go home.” He pushed his way through the throng, but only got a few steps before they pressed in tighter, one man sliding in front of him and almost making him stumble and fall on his bad leg.

“Hey!”

“Ninety years is a long time to be alone. Surely you had some other company.”

“I wasn’t alone! I had friends, good friends. Why is this such a big deal?”

“Really? Just friends?”

He bit his lip, once again unsure what to say, knowing whatever he said might very well come back to haunt him. Looking at the crowd of journalists, he wondered if his silence might speak louder than words.

With a great sigh he rubbed his head, could feel a dull thudding beneath the bone. “They were family.”

Again there was a flurry of scratching pens, a few of them asking additional questions that he barely heard, wondering how this would come back to bite him. But to say anything else would feel akin to a betrayal.

A bespectacled skeleton edged through the crowd, calling his name until Héctor finally glared at him.

“Héctor! _Sí! Señor_ , can you tell me about your dance partner?”

“My _what_?”

“I mean your—“

“So what else are you hiding?” someone piped up from the back.

“What kind of a question is that!” Héctor yelped, jerking backward. This was getting ridiculous. He was tempted to make a run for it when one man stepped forward from the pack of wolves and pulled Héctor away amidst mild protests from the others, slinging an arm around his shoulders like they were old pals.

“Ah, amigo, the whole land is wondering about you now,” the man said, a leer stretching across his skull. “Might as well make it worth your while, eh? And I could get you a good price, a real good price, for an interview. What do you say?”

“Ehhhh…” Héctor leaned far away, uncomfortably aware of the man’s hand gripping his shoulder. Glancing around, he caught sight of an escape, a balcony railing hopefully leading to not too great a drop. With a smooth duck he swung out from under the arm and stepped backward, facing the journalists with a broad grin, his arms spread wide.

“Well, this has been fun and all, but it’s been a really long day and I’m just gonna go now. Okay? So, then… _buenas tardes_!”

“Hey, wait! _Señor_!”

“ _¡Disculpe_ , Sr. Rivera!”

But Héctor had already slipped away, holding tight to his hat as he dashed across the short space, skipping wide over the railing and clambering down to the next landing. As he steadied himself, a little shakier than usual, he glanced up and caught sight of skeletons beginning to appear at the railing. With a grin he took off, turning a corner and quickly getting lost in the crowds until he came to a quiet side-street where he waited, breathing heavily until he was sure he hadn’t been followed. 

“Well that didn’t go well,” he muttered, leaning back against a wall. Had he answered those well enough? It hadn’t been too bad, right? Thinking back, he couldn’t recall much other than how annoying it had been.

“Ugh. ‘What else are you hiding?’” he spat, walking down the narrow alley, his limp worse than before. “Of all the dumb questions...”

Then he hesitated, catching his words. Honestly, there was a lot he hadn’t told Imelda, or anyone for that matter. But even if there were a few skeletons in his closet, he didn't have to share that with the world. What he did in his afterlife was no one’s business but his own. Well, his and Imelda’s, he thought miserably. There were some things he needed to tell her, he knew that. But he hadn’t expected for it all to come up so soon.

In the weeks since Dia de los Muertos, she hadn’t shown any strong interest in his afterlife, and he had been fine with that. Whenever they talked it was always Héctor asking and listening. He assumed that neither her nor the rest of the family had cared much about what he had been doing. Which was fine, he reminded himself, feeling a small twinge of annoyance. Understandable. Better, in fact. He knew they were easing into a relationship again, and he didn’t mind waiting for them to get more comfortable with each other before bringing up some of the more questionable things. And… and there were a few of them.

He groaned, rubbing his forehead, feeling even more exhausted.

“Yeah fine, maybe I am hiding a few things. I did tell the truth, though,” he muttered. “Technically.”

Then he looked around, and realized he didn’t actually recognize the place. What he took to be an alley wove into a quaint, comfortable little back street with the usual looming houses all around and with a general feeling of being newly built. It was brightly colored and simmering with life, with plants and wind chimes brightening the pace, full of sound as he heard a radio from one window and laughter from another, although the street itself was empty. 

He came upon a little fenced-off yard where a goat alebrije languidly chewed, turning its head as he approached. He leaned against the paint-flaked fence, stretching his arms out along it and reflecting on many things, as he took a moment to breathe and rest his legs.

"Guess I could have done a better job of explaining it all to Imelda," he said, glancing over at the alibrije who had stepped a little closer to him. "I mean, even if I can't tell her everything right now, she still deserved better than that. If I had just thought it through earlier, maybe I could have... I don't know. Eh, suppose there’s always tomorrow, right? Ha! Ah, that feels good to say!”

At least he had time. For once he wasn’t racing against the falling sand, and regardless of what happened, Imelda had actually _listened_ to him! They had talked! That was a very nice change. Even if he suspected she didn’t quite believe everything, which was entirely his fault and he knew it. But he could fix it. Maybe.

“Yeah. Tomorrow I’ll go see her, we’ll sit down, and I’ll tell her the real story, that's what I'll do! Or some of it, anyway, don’t know how I’ll explain the beginning. Or why I broke into Aida's house and uh… no, shouldn’t mention that. And maybe skim over the torture bit. Except Imelda only knows about Aida, so… might not have to explain that one. Egh, is that even possible? If I just say that… mmm, probably not. Okay! So I'll just skip over that and then the… almost drowning. And then the fishing for a leg thing, and the sleeping togeth- no, maybe not that. Then hiding under the dock… uh, maybe skip that part too, she probably doesn’t need to know about that. Or that I asked Aida to strip, kinda. Huh… what was I going to tell her again?”

The alebrije wasn’t particularly helpful, munching on what he realized was a lumpy gray sock. So he twisted his mouth and tried to remember exactly what else Imelda had been asking about. Oh yeah. The rib.

“Ay, why did I even bring up that rib? She wasn’t asking about that! Why didn’t I just say it was my friend’s?” He looked over at the neon face and waved a hand. “I could have said I had to steal back my friend’s rib. That’s not weird, right?”

The alebrije slowly blinked, still chewing.

“Ehhh… it’s a little weird,” Héctor muttered, turning back and watching a jewel-bright dragonfly alebrije flutter this way and that, before vanishing from sight. High above, the stars began to appear, faint and thin against the sky. They were no nearer or farther than usual, but in that moment they seemed especially out of reach.

“Maybe I really did mess it all up," he murmured. Maybe it was already too late to go back to the way things were between them, and there was no one to blame except himself. What if he ended up hurting Imelda all over again? She was doing fine on her own, she had proved that. Clearly she didn't need him. He wasn't entirely sure if she still wanted him. The alebrije nudged his shoulder with its nose, loudly sniffing at his vest, and pulled him from those thoughts. Héctor smiled and scratched between its horns.

“I’ll just have to do better, yeah? Bring it out in the open and tell her what happened. The truth. How we met and the whole… house-burning thing. It’s not like I would have to tell her everything all at once, but I could begin to tell her some of it. I could… I could at least mention…” He paused, frowning, and found himself unable to say the word, annoyed at the cruel voices in his head and the familiar stab of pain near his absent heart.

“I’m not ashamed, that’s not the reason,” he muttered, but there was little conviction. He certainly was acting like it, and the realization made something curdle within him. With a low sigh he straightened up, patted the alebrije’s head twice, and kept walking.

Home awaited him.

Fortunately, the secret entrance to Shantytown was all clear, yet he found himself glancing up and down the dark path before slipping through the jagged crack in the ancient adobe wall. There he found himself overlooking the land of the almost-Forgotten, the far-off sea reflected the new-risen moon, while golden lights hung suspended in the darkness, brightening the little homes and neighborhoods. A breeze touched him high up there, cool and fresh, and he breathed deep. It had been a long day.

“ _Señor_?”

“Ah!” He jumped, his top half spinning so quickly his legs had to catch up as he turned to see a woman also squeezing her way through the gap in the wall. A woman who holding a little book in her hand, and he had a feeling she wasn’t there for an autograph.

“Pardon, I’m here on behalf of _Hasta la Muerte_ —“

“Ay, ay, ay…” he moaned, dropping his head.

“I have a few questions for you.”

“No. Just… no.” He held up his hands, stopping her. “I am not doing any interviews, so you can just turn around and leave. Actually, wait a minute.” He realized where they were standing, and a quick glance at her suggested she was not from Shantytown. “Wait, how… how did you even find me here?”

“I uh… followed you,” she said, pointedly looking away.

“What? Are you _loco_? You just…” He glowered at her, and realized he wasn’t one to talk. “Fine. Just don’t tell anyone else about it, okay?”

“Fine. In exchange for answering my questions.”

Héctor shoved his head into his hands and bit back a scream.

“Just a few questions—“

“No.” He held up a hand before she could continue. “Absolutely not. Today has been a very long day, and right now I just want to go home.”

“Tomorrow then,” she said, annoyingly persistent. “And I won’t tell anyone about this little secret entrance of yours.”

“Ayyy…” His head rolled back, almost falling off his shoulders before he snapped it forward. “Okay, okay. As long as you don’t tell anyone about this, or sneak up on me like that again, then fine. I’ll answer a few of your questions tomorrow. Or the next day. Or whenever you stalk me next.” He couldn’t keep the peevishness out of his voice.

“Great. I’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Great. Good night,” he said briskly, turning on his heel and catching one last glimpse of her before his head caught up with his body and he stepped off the ledge.

There was a gasp above him as he caught the little iron-wrought handhold and landed lightly, his bones rattling but holding together. He glanced up to see the woman peering down, her shock clear even in the dim light.

“What?” he said, holding his arms wide. “I said good night.”

She frowned at that, so he shrugged and leapt down the next ledge, then the next. When he looked up again the woman was gone. There was an odd sense of déjà vu, of looking up and seeing a dark figure outlined against the stars, a memory he couldn’t very well forget.

But there was no one. He was alone. 

He leaned against the wall and let out a long sigh and looked out over the far world, heard faint laughter and the refrain of a song, and dwelt upon how awful he felt. It was a feeling that had snuck up on him, from a general uneasiness to something sharp and ice cold.

He curled his arms around himself and closed his eyes. There in the quiet, on the dark hidden edge of the underworld, he was struck with the familiar pain of grief, the new fear of losing his family all over again, and the overwhelming loneliness. He missed them. The feelings were so strong and came so fast he nearly fell to his knees, leaning his shoulder hard against the cold stone as he tried not to crumble.

But he had dealt with this before, and had moved past it time and again. He could do this. Besides, he was talking with Imelda and the rest of the family, and at some point those articles would stop and he would be ok. Hopefully. And one day Coco would arrive and he’d be able to see her, and tell her how much he loved her. That thought alone gave him strength, something tangible to work towards. Then, after seeing his daughter, and talking with her once more… he would tell Imelda the truth.

After a little time he recovered and continued his way down the great stone steps, slower than before and increasingly thankful for the handholds along the walls they had put in all those years ago. Before the final ledge he headed right and went to the point of the grand pyramid, clambering through a gap and coming onto a dusty street, far from the usual entrance with not a soul in sight. Perfect. It put him on the opposite side of his home, but at least he could avoid unwanted attention from those reporters.He skirted around the main alleys and places where he heard laughter or conversation, meandering through familiar dark streets and keeping his head down. With any luck he might be able to avoid having to talk to anyone else.

“Ay, Héctor! That you?"

Or not. His first instinct was to grimace, and he warily looked towards a shabby little veranda decorated with strings of golden lights and with dingy furniture on the roof of the shack.

Héctor squinted, then grinned and waved, calling out, “Ay, Lando! _Que onda?_ How ya been?”

“Ah, well stop shouting, come over here, and I’ll tell ya.”

Héctor paused, not keen on being interrogated again, which seemed to happen every time he sat down with someone. Besides, he already had enough on his mind without another person asking him a dozen questions, or requests, or even lyric suggestions, which was new. Longingly he glanced down the path that would lead him to an empty, quiet home.

Lando called out again, “What are you waiting for, _amigo_? I’ve got cards.”

With a sigh and a smile he loped down the dirt path to the old shack and the grinning skeleton sitting comfortably in a chair.

“Why do you look so tired? It’s not even late yet. You’re too young to call it an early night.”

“Young?” Héctor said, putting a hand to his spine and stretching, straightening from the slouch he’d been in. “I’m a great-great-grandpa, you call that young? I should be hobbling around with a cane by now.”

“You are hobbling,” Lando said with a good-natured laugh, and Héctor felt himself relax. The former brick-maker had died in his fifties, far older than Héctor’s meager twenty-one years; but then Héctor was one of the older members of Shantytown, so it more or less canceled out.

“Pull up a chair. Up for a game of Conquian?”

“Eh, sure, why not.” Héctor sat and watched him shuffle in comfortable silence, grateful to be able to have a normal conversation again.

They had known each other for quite a time, although perhaps more of acquaintances than anything.  Still, it was nice to sit with a friendly soul. For a time they played and chatted about this or that: who had been Forgotten recently, updates at Casa Chueca, and speculating on the new construction by the southwest corner. Then the conversation moved to the inevitable.

“I read about you in a magazine lately,” Lando said with a knowing look.

“Ugh, don’t tell me. They’re always writing about me now. I just try to ignore it all.”

“Did you see this one?” Lando pulled out a folded up page from the little table beside him and handed it over.

One glance and Héctor leaned back. “Oh, ech! This one! My wife-you know, my wife Imelda? Ah, she showed it to me earlier today, and ay, ay, she is _not_ happy. She thinks I was together with Aida!”

Lando laughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she read that.”

“It’s ridiculous!” Héctor said, glowering at the stupid paper.

“Not arguing that, but it’s beside the point.” Lando leaned in and went on in a conspiratorial voice. “I actually brought it up for another reason. Did you read the bottom? About the next article?”

Héctor frowned and flipped the paper over to the end. Sure enough…

_Next week: Héctor and the Dancer!_

His hand slowly fell to his lap as he felt a chill over him. _Oh no…_

“The dancer, eh?” Lando said with a low chuckle. “Makes you wonder who that might be.”

Héctor met his eyes and Lando gave him a knowing, sympathetic look. He glanced away, panic rising in him before he shook his head and gave a forced laugh.

“Ahh, come off it! Not like it was a big secret or anything. I mean, it won’t be… that bad?” But even as he said it, he winced.

“I don’t know, _amigo_ ,” Lando said in a mild tone, shrugging. “You know what it’s like, especially in the rest of the Land. Not everyone is going to be so understanding.”

Héctor glowered at the paper. “It’s dumb. So what if we were friends?”

“And lived together,” Lando said, leaning back with a smile.

“Well, yeah but... ugh.” He groaned and hung his head. With all that had been written about Aida, there was no way the next article was going to be any better, especially with Imelda. Oh, this could get… very bad. How much had they found out?

Lando coughed, catching his attention before his mind went further down that dark path. “Look Héctor, as nice as it is having you here and playing cards, I also wanted to warn you.”

“Warn me?” Héctor said, lifting his head.

“Once that article goes out, you might want to, well, you know…”

“What?”

There was a movement from the house and Héctor turned to see another older skeleton, Inocencio, leaning in the doorway and looking down at him.

“He’s trying to say you should keep your distance from people like us. It’s about time you move on with your real family, and go live with the rest of the Remembered. For your own sake.”

Héctor leaned back, staring at him a long moment, then at Lando who looked away as if ashamed. There was a pause, then Héctor laughed.

“Ahh, as if! Trust me, amigos, I’ve heard that before, but I wouldn’t hold your breath.” He leaned forward and scooped up the cards before folding them into a tidy deck. “So! You just gonna stand in the doorway all night? Sit down. We’re playing Conquian.”

Inocencio hesitated, then he smiled and pulled up a little wooden stool, glancing at Lando who shrugged with a warm grin. They ended up playing cards and talking long into the night, just like old times.

But all the while, Héctor wondered and dreaded what would happen once that next article was published.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Héctor knows what’s up…
> 
> This chapter roughly finishes the first arc of the story. How many chapters is this going to be? Quite a few. We’re just now getting started to the real fun! (although that term is debatable)
> 
> There’s a whole lot of little clues in this chapter, and some have more than one meaning. Also there’s a lot of reading between the lines needed for this.
> 
> I have a feeling that there’s already going to be suspicions about who ‘the dancer’ is but I’m learning that I can never predict what people are going to pick up on. It’s fascinating!
> 
> If you’d ever like to chat or share a theory, feel free to PM me on tumblr or Discord.


	10. The Forty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than expected! (Last update was in July? Really??)  
> I got stuck on this chapter. Nothing was feeling right, and ended up rewriting 4/5 of it but it was well worth it! It meant fundamentally changing some future stuff. Well actually going back to my original idea that I thought I couldn't use, but I made it work.  
> Remember what happened in chapter four? That whole thing? Yeah, I haven’t forgotten about that. Neither has Héctor.  
> Warning: Homophobic attitudes and language (including f- slur). For reference, joto, puto, maricon and many more are homophobic slurs (there's really no good word for a gay man, not until more recently). Chapter also has references to sexual assualt and rape.  
> Big thank you to BabyCharmander and TomatoSoupful for betaing!!

December 1925

Even after more than four years after his death, there were still surprises in the Land of the Dead. One of them being the angry skeleton running away from him.

“Leave me the fuck alone!”

“Ay, ay, ay, _hombre_! Just hold up a bit, you dropped this,” Héctor called out, chasing after the man through the rocky, half-fallen ruins on the edge of Shantytown. He turned a corner, caught a glimpse of white bones, and so kept following.

“Fuck off!” the man shouted over his shoulder.

“Just wait up! Where you going?”

The man abruptly stopped running, and Héctor realized it was only because they were at a dead end surrounded by high rocky walls, one of many such to be found in the ruins. Héctor slowed and watched as the man looked around at the impassable cliffs, before turning and facing him.

“The hell do you want?” he snarled, curling his bony hands into fists.

“Hey, relax!” Héctor said, and then held out the bright piece of fabric. “I just wanted to return this—“

“It’s not mine! That- that damn _bastardo_ gave it to me as a joke,” the man spat, his face twisted in anger. “I don’t want it. So back off!”

Héctor flinched back at the harshness of his voice, feeling a familiar twinge of anger at the ‘bastard’ insult. Frowning, he held up the dropped thing and saw it was a woman’s blouse. A rather nice looking one, at that.

“What kind of a joke—“

The man smacked his hand down, making Héctor jump back in shock, not realizing he had gotten so close.

“Don’t hold it up, dammit!” he hissed.

“Ay, ay, I’m just trying to be friendly here,” Héctor said, raising his hands high and grinning at him. “You’re not going to make many friends around here if you just keep shouting at everyone who tries to help. Come on, no reason to hold a grudge, right?”

The man squinted at Héctor, breathing hard. His fury gave way to confusion, then to mild wariness. “You… you don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Ahhh… no. No, I don’t. Why, should I? You famous around here or something?”

The man let out a humorless breath of laughter. “Yeah, something like that. Listen, you shouldn’t be talking to me.”

“What? Why?”

“Doesn’t matter. Just... leave me alone, all right?”

With that, the skeleton lowered his head and walked past him, and Héctor stood aside and watched him go. Frowning, he held up the colorful blouse, shrugged, and wrapped it through his belt before he walked out and made his way to the Drunk Agave, one of many crusty little cantinas of the Land of the Dead. The men he lived with often went there, and for once he had allowed himself to be dragged along for an evening. Maybe he could actually make some friends with them, away from the imposing house they lived in.

Initially he had always been on edge in that house, a vague feeling of something _off_. But he was beginning to think that that feeling had less to do with _who_ he lived with, and more with the _where_ , buried as it was in the depths of Shantytown. Thinking of that, he held up his hand as he walked and peered at it closely, wondering if it was any more yellow than before. Perhaps the rumors were true and things faded more quickly there in the land of the almost-Forgotten; that things turned rotten. He wasn’t sure.

Soon enough he arrived at the cantina and made his way through the smoke and chatter. He slipped past Pablo, a broad-shouldered man nicknamed _el Matador_ —the Killer—and finally sank down at a crowded little table beside Alvaro, looking forward to an evening to relax and have some fun. If he could.

“Where the hell did you go?” Alvaro asked immediately, breaking off from his conversation with his neighbor and frowning at him from behind the thin smoke of his cigarette.

“Oh, ahh… nowhere,” Héctor said with a shrug. “My guitar string broke again just after we left the house and I didn’t want to carry it like that, so I went back to drop it off. Then I ran into this angry guy and, well, kinda lost track of you.”

“Ah, guess that’s all right, then," Alvaro said. "I was afraid you might have ditched. You could have gotten in some real trouble if you had.”

“Trouble?” Héctor asked, frowning. Alvaro merely shrugged and took a long pull of his cigarette, saying no more.

One of the other men they lived with—an old, weather-beaten skeleton who claimed he fought against the Americans in 1847—came and leaned against the table before immediately talking with the others seated there. Hector lost any interest once he picked up the gist of the conversation. With half an ear he heard something about a “ _pinche_ faggot _,”_ and then laughter at, “should have seen him squirm!”

Holding back a sigh, he was reminded once again that he didn’t belong there. He had known early on that he was in a rough crowd. They reminded him fiercely of the Revolutionaries from when he and Ernesto had run away to join the fighting, and there was an odd familiarity with the vulgar, sometimes alarming, talk he would overhear. But many had been good men, had looked out for him, and besides, he had survived that and this would be no different. Except, well… survive wasn’t the right word. He would make it through this. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

Without a word he rose and headed to the bar at the back, finding space beside a man with a red-checkered _serape_ around his shoulders, his head flat on the countertop and his snores just barely audible beneath the din. Héctor let his mind drift as he looked around the cantina, one he had never been in before, yet felt familiar all the same. The place was dark and weathered, stained with smoke and spilled drinks, and had the familiar sweet-sour smell that clung to the back of the throat and mingled with the clouds of smoke and reek of rancid sawdust beneath their feet. Like all the other cantinas in the Land of the Dead it was busy and packed with men, all women forbidden. And, like all the rest, it had the familiar hum of a dozen conversations going on at once, even as many sat quietly by themselves, looking nowhere but the bottom of their glass.

Despite the easygoing vibe, a fresh chill overcame him, a familiar sorrow. A reminder of what he had done when he had first died and arrived there, alone and unwanted and entirely lost. He had taken a loan from some men that he later learned was a bad, bad idea. Then he had used that money to numb himself with drink. Also a bad, bad idea.

Those first few months of his death were little more than a hazy, sour dream, or perhaps a nightmare. He couldn’t stop thinking about Imelda and Coco, had often imagined the pain he must have caused them when they learned about his death. When those thoughts became too overwhelming, or when he gave a passing glance into a window and saw sunken eyes staring back out of a skull, he bought a bottle and hid himself away from the world. Or sometimes, when his mind decided to be cruel, it would remind him of other things he wished to forget.

The thrum of the bar seemed to fall quiet around him, and for a long moment he raised his hand and turned it, staring at the bony wrists against the wood of the bar. He imagined the rope-stained bruises from that terrible night so soon before his death—the noises and the _pain_ and the taste of salt and copper on his lips-

“Ay, _amigo_!”

Héctor jerked out of that thought, blinking and jumping a little as Javier, the leader of all these men, sat beside him with a hard clap on his back.

“You look like you need a drink,” he said cheerfully. “What do you want?”

“Eh?”

Before he could speak or argue, Javier was calling over the _cantinero_ and ordering a _mescal_ for both of them. Javier waved off his muddled thanks with a grin.

“Ah, it’s nothing! Glad you finally joined us out here, eh?” Javier said, leaning on the bar, and turning to better look at him, one eye squinting. “I hardly ever see you except a little odd playing at night. And don’t get me wrong! It’s good, real good. You’re a real hand with that guitar of yours. Bet you could perform with the big shots if you put your mind to it. So, I figure we’d best enjoy what we got while we got it. Ha! One thing you learn here: nothing matters, so might as well make the best of it. Ah, finally!”

The two glasses of _mescal_ arrived and Javier handed one to Héctor with a grin.

“Here, _amigo_. May you continue to live all the days of your life,” he said before tipping the drink back.

With an unpleasant, almost sickening twinge of guilt Héctor stared down into his own glass, thinking back to his days and nights trying to drown himself with alcohol. He would rather toss it out the nearest window, but there was nothing for it. So he closed his eyes and raised the glass. The smoky taste of the _mescal_ would have turned his stomach if he had one, but as it was he only blinked away the harsh burn, and hoped it might take away some of the sharp edge, those terrible memories.

“Heard you singing a _corrido_ the other night about Venustiano Carranza,” Javier said. “You fought in the Revolution too, didn’t you? You seem to know the songs of it, sure enough.”

“Y-yeah… a little bit,” Héctor muttered uncomfortably. He had been thirteen and terrified when he joined, and while he had been there, he had never been a soldier unlike all those men. The two times—precisely two times—he had been handed a gun and told to shoot, he didn’t. Couldn’t. Perhaps he had been too weak.

Héctor knew well enough that Javier had fought in the Revolution, and before that in the Caste War in 1901 in the Yucatán. A soldier. A fighter. The thought made him uneasy, but that was soon softened with the flow of talk and the smooth burn of alcohol. In fact, Héctor even began to enjoy himself as they began to chat about music and songs, and it was far easier talking about that than thinking of everything else.

Javier asked if he knew some song or another, often war-time  _corridos_ , and if Hector had ever heard of a pretty little love ballad that a whore had created one night. They had a surprising amount in common, and he even played a little guitar himself. Javier had been intimidating before, certainly, yet he had always seemed frank and approachable, prone to laughter and broad grins. Maybe Héctor had misjudged him.

“Heard you got a wife,” Javier said eventually. “If you’re here so soon, she must have been one hell of a bitch—“

“Don’t call her that!” Héctor shouted, alarmed to find himself on his feet. A moment later he realized that others were also rising, and there was danger hidden amidst the smoke and sudden quiet.

“Ah, okay, easy there!” Javier said with a faint laugh, waving Héctor down and giving a signal that made the other men relax. “Just figured with how you can’t cross, you and the wife must not have been all that close. And you know Flavio’s only here cause his wife poisoned him—he can’t cross either, no surprise. Or did your girl remarry?”

“I…” He paused, felt himself sink back and look away. “I don’t know. I don’t know why I can’t cross over.”

“That so? Ah man, that’s rough. S’all right though, at least you’re in good company. A lot of these _hombres_ can’t cross either; many got no families that want them, that’s why they’re all here.”

“What about you?” Héctor asked, keen to move the conversation off of himself. “Do you not have family here?”

“Me? Ha, I’m good,” he said, leaning back and grinning. “I’ve got family in the upper Land, and I’m lucky enough to walk over that Bridge every year thanks to my son, but I prefer being here with the rest of them. These men, I could never just abandon them—they need a leader, someone to hold everything together. Besides, it’s a hell lot more fun here than up there. Here you can do whatever the hell you want and no one will stop you. That’s freedom.”

Héctor rolled his eyes, yet found himself warming to the man nonetheless. He was rough around the edges, sure, but Hector could appreciate that kind of loyalty. If he had a chance to be in the upper Land, he’d never step foot in Shantytown again.

“Oy… what’s that you got there?” Javier said, frowning and jutting his chin towards the fabric looped through Héctor’s belt.

“What, this? Just something I picked up,” Héctor said, rubbing a bit of the fabric between his bony fingers. “I tried to give it back to the guy who dropped it but he didn’t want it, so I was thinking to give it to this girl I know.  A friend, I mean! Just a girl who’s a friend,” he was quick to clarify, sick of hearing the jeers and comments about his supposed _amante_. It was ridiculous, especially considering he didn’t even know her name.

Javier, however, did no such thing.

“Got it off a guy, huh?” he said, squinting at him with an almost calculating air. “What? About this tall, white shirt, pissed off?”

“Yeah, that’s him!” Héctor said, snapping his fingers. “You know him?”

Javier let out a sharp laugh. “Ha! Yeah, I know that guy. Listen here, _amigo_.” Javier leaned closer, and despite all he had drunk his eyes were clear and sharp. “Little word of advice? Stay away from him.”

Héctor felt an odd chill at those words, a sense of danger lurking beneath the false casualness.

“Why? What’s wrong with him? Who is he?”

“Well you see, that fellow? The man you just met?” Javier said, his voice sinking lower. “He’s one of the original _Forty-One_.”

“He’s... wait, what?” Héctor puzzled over that as Javier called out to the bartender for a _cerveza_.

Héctor knew what he was referring to, but that didn’t make any sense. The Dance of the Forty-One had been an infamous scandal from he was just a baby, when forty-one men were arrested at a dance in Mexico City. It had only been big news because half of the high-class, wealthy men had been dressed as women, complete in skirts, wigs and false breasts. If nothing else, Héctor couldn’t imagine the furious man he had just met parading around in women’s clothing at some elegant ball.

“You don’t mean like one of the actual dancers?” Héctor said, frowning at Javier. “That guy? No way… Really?”

“ _¡Claro que sí!”_ Javier said cheerfully, slapping his hand on the bar. “I’m serious. He was thrown in Lecumberri Prison with the rest of them.”

Héctor frowned, an uncomfortable feeling settling over him. Lecumberri was an infamous federal prison. “But he’s not actually, you know… dangerous or anything, right?”

Javier squinted at him, considering for a long while before he shook his head with a faint grin.

“You really don’t know, huh? Yeah, man, that guy’s a dangerous criminal. Knew him during the Caste War, fighting against the Indians in ’01. I’ve seen him attack someone for looking at him the wrong way. Heh, vicious fucker.” He shook his head and took another drink.

Héctor felt himself grow increasingly cold, hunching his shoulders and staring at the worn wood without truly seeing it. A dangerous criminal? One of the Forty-One?

“Oh yeah!” Javier said, grinning broadly and slapping his hand on the bar. “I didn’t tell you: he was in the army under Huerta.”

“What?” Héctor said in a hushed voice. That man was a _Huertista_? _That_ was damning. Victoriano Huerta was perhaps the most reviled people of the Revolution, a brutish, violent drunkard who had ruled Mexico with an Iron Hand. Even President Diaz was not so detested. It was under Huerta that the army began conscripting men like mad, and it was only with luck and a passing train that Héctor and Ernesto had managed to avoid being pulled into the army. So this man—the one Héctor had tried to help—was one of his fighters. That made sense in a way. Many of the men who fought under Huerta had been criminals pulled from prison, especially in the south of Mexico. They were those kind of federal soldiers who had burned and razed villages, and who had murdered civilians, raping and abducting women.

Héctor knew better than most. He had seen the blackened, empty villages, the fly-covered corpses littering the streets, the crying of girls. He knew what those soldier could do. Had that man been one of them? And then to be one of the Forty-One… A sickness seemed to be spreading through him. For some horrible reason, he remembered the sound of the girl, Maris, as she sobbed against his chest that terrible night.

 _Don’t think about it_.

Javier gave a short, humorless laugh into his cup, before turning and clapping Héctor on the back. “Just be careful. Wouldn’t want you getting in trouble with him, eh?”

“Uhh… right. Yeah. Thanks,” he muttered, tense and trying not to seem so. He had to get away. Something was wrong with him.

“Ay, ay, Javier!” A man came up from behind them, his voice slurred. “ _Oiga,_ some of the other guys were talking about heading over to Henriqua’s _casa de putas_. You in?”

“Hell yeah! What about you, _amigo_ ,” Javier said, turning to Héctor. “We could get you a nice girl, maybe get some motivation for to write some new songs!”

“Ahh, no, I’m uh, just going to, um…” He hesitated, his foot restlessly tapping against the floor as he gazed about, aware of the group of men surrounding them, waiting. “I’m going to stay here for a bit longer.”

There were some glares and mutters at that, but Javier merely shrugged and stood, leaving him alone to his relief. After a few moments he also stood and left, weaving his way through the tight pack of men. As if he’d ever find himself at a whorehouse, he thought irritably. Frankly he was almost surprised such places existed when they were all just empty bones.

Even when he was alive he had never shown interest in women like that, and he had even less interest in the afterlife, if that were possible. No other woman could ever compare to Imelda, and he would never stoop so low as to be unfaithful to her. But besides that was a deeper, darker reason. What had once been something wonderfully intimate and loving with his wife had grown twisted and dirty. The press of bodies, the rhythmic thrusts, the grunts and pants…

No, he couldn’t think of it. Why was he thinking about it? Maybe it was the alcohol making him lose the tight grip he kept over those emotions. Stumbling a little, he made his way back to a small group of worn-down skeletons that he recognized as those he lived with. The smoke and the reek of alcohol was beginning to make his head spin.

Something was wrong within him, a growing tension that he couldn’t quite hide. Around him, the circle of men began to sing through _Puentes a Chihuahua_ , and he kept quiet, numbly wondering why he was so bothered by what he had learned. So what if he had met one of the Forty-One? What did he care? Although it was odd: he had always just thought of the _maricons_ in dresses—that was the real scandal. He had forgotten about the other half of the men. And the man he had met, a violent criminal, a _Huertista_ , a…

Hardly breathing, Héctor held up his hand, and saw that it was trembling. He clapped his other hand around the bony gap of his wrist, the place where he knew the bruises had been, and forced his hand down, hoping no one had noticed. The chill of that night seemed to breathe over him, and he realized- he _knew_ why he felt so wrong.

That man had been the same as his attacker.

The thought made him sick. But beneath that there was also something like anger, and it was strange and foreign. He couldn’t stay there. The familiar space was quickly too much to handle: too loud, too pungent, and the men laughed too loud and stood too close.

No one noticed when he slipped away, just as they began a familiar song…

_My ungrateful love went away with another.”_

The grating slur of words followed him, his head down, praying no one would stop him.

_"Oh God take away this sickness,_

_I feel as if I were surely going to die-_

_The Virgin of pulque and whiskey must save me.”_

He left with only a few odd glances, and passed a man lingering outside the door who was whittling something long and white, and Héctor saw that it was one of the man’s own bones. The sight unnerved him.

Something was struggling within him, dark and gray, and he kept his eyes straight ahead and let the numbness take hold. He knew what it was, but knowing it couldn’t stop the growing sensations. Anger and terror and pain, and a paranoia that would come and go like a storm on the horizon, yet always there in the back of his mind. A shiver went through him as memories of that night in Mexico City pressed against his mind. Memories that he’d rather leave locked and buried.

_That’s it, don’t fight..._

He jerked his head, trying to force out the voice, before curling his arms around his ribs. He _had_ fought back, he argued to himself. He hadn’t wanted that. He wasn't like those men, those _jotos_. He had fought back!  _U_ _ntil I didn’t_.

He winced, holding himself closer as he staggered down a quiet street in the darkening gloom. Despite the passing years, he couldn’t forget it, although he had long since forgotten the face of the man. Much of that night had blurred and distorted until he sometimes wondered if it had been real, or simply a terrible dream that wouldn’t let him rest.

Maybe if he kept quiet, it couldn’t hurt him anymore. It was a secret he had kept to his grave, and would continue holding well beyond it. He never wished for another soul to ever know what had happened to him. No one could know what had been done—what he had become. No… no, that wasn’t quite true.

Looking up at the bright, pale moon, his mind drifted to Imelda. One day he would have to tell her. It was only fair. Hopefully it would not be for many, many years, and she would have the long life he could only dream of. Surely by then the pain would have gone away. Maybe it would finally stop aching. Maybe he could forget.

But how could he share a bed with her again, knowing how dirtied he was? Less than a man, unworthy of being her husband. Would she still even want him?

_Do you ever miss me, Imelda?_

He forced out a low, deep breath, shutting his eyes tight. There was always a pain when he thought about her and Coco, but it was a pain he deserved.

 

With nothing better to do, and with those cold questions filling his head, his feet took him to the waterlogged edge of Shantytown. The best thing to do would be to head back to his place and try to sleep and hope there wouldn’t be nightmares. But before he had fully decided upon that route a new distraction, a slight sound, caught his attention. He looked up to see a figure stepping out of one of the dingy shacks; she was in a skirt, alone, and just familiar enough for him to grin.

“Hey! Hey there, _Señorita!_ ” he called out, waving his hand high overhead. She jumped and then sank into a half-crouch, looking skittish as he half-ran toward her. “Hey, it’s just me, Héctor! The _músico_.”

“Oh,” she said curiously, straightening. They weren’t exactly friends, but he had grown accustomed to her in the weeks since he had caught her listening to him. Night after night she would come out and listen to him. It was like befriending a stray cat that let you get a little closer every day, but if one tried to pet or approach it would turn skittish. She made the nights less lonely. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, squinting at him in the darkness. “You never come by here.”

“Eh, that’s cause I’m coming from a cantina down that way,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Huh… this where you live?” he said, gesturing to the tiny, slumped shack they stood outside.

“Y-yeah,” she muttered, either nervous or embarrassed, he wasn’t quite sure. She always was reluctant to give out any sort of information about herself. Even when he had introduced himself a while back, she hadn’t said anything in response, or when he had mentioned his family, she had quite resolutely said nothing. Looking at the dark little building, listening to the silence, he figured she must live alone, which was remarkable in itself.

“Were you going to go play tonight?” she said, distracting him. “I was about to walk over.”

“Oh, ah… I don’t have my guitar.” He frowned, not having thought of that when he had walked there. Initially he hadn’t planned on playing at all, but he was suddenly, desperately in need of company. “Hey, what do you say we go and get it? It’s not that far.”

Héctor watched quietly as she hesitated and demurred, but ultimately agreed. They set off, side-by-side, and made their way out of the boardwalk maze. A fresh breeze blew off the water and Héctor felt himself settle as they walked, often in an amiable silence. They came to a rotten gap in the wood and he offered a hand to her which she happily ignored as she bounded across the gap. He quickly caught up and as they walked Héctor became aware of brushing against something at his side. He was almost surprised to look down and see the blouse still tucked into his belt. He pulled it out and glared at it, the bright woven fabric ugly and muted in the darkness. Without thinking he bunched it up and threw it far over the water, hating that he had kept hold of anything that had belonged to that other man. Without it in his hands, he felt just a little lighter.

“What was that?” the girl asked, rather shocked. Héctor blinked, realizing too late how odd that might have looked.

“Nothing, just... nothing, it's fine!” He gave an unconvincing grin, a lousy attempt at a laugh. Glancing over, he caught the woman’s mistrustful look and grimaced. “Yeah, all right, so it was a woman's blouse I’d picked up earlier and uh, didn’t realize who I had taken it from. Normally I wouldn’t just throw something away like that,” he said quickly, wondering if that had been rude. Generally things held more value in the Land of the Dead, especially there amongst the almost-Forgotten.

“Oh…” she said, and he could almost hear the frown in her voice.

For a dozen paces he kept quiet, working his jaw as he thought about what to tell her. In the distance he heard a harsh, ringing cry of an alebrije, and passed row upon row of squat little houses, the sound of laughter and chatter filling the silence between them, but it couldn't disguise the growing tension. Finally he let out a great sigh and hung his head.

“All right, fine!” he said, waving his hand in defeat. “So it’s because the guy I got it from was one of the Forty-One.”

He watched her as they walked, hoping she would nod her head and understand. Instead, she seemed to ponder a minute and then tentatively asked, “What's the Forty-One?"

“Oh, right. Well uh… you might not have heard of it. It’s not exactly polite conversation.”

“Can you tell me anyway?" she said, looking at him, her curiosity perhaps overriding her usual wariness. "Were they bandits? Soldiers?”

“Nah, no nothing like that,” he said, shaking his head before pointing left at a small juncture in the narrow road. He hadn't meant to talk about any of that, but somehow it felt easier to talk with her out there in the open. “So basically the Dance of the Forty-One was this big scandal in Mexico City, when a bunch of men got arrested for dancing and dressing like women."

"Why were they arrested?"

"“Uh, public indecency? Wait, no, it wasn’t public, it was… an attack on morality or something. I don't know all the details, but I think they were associated with Diaz, a bunch of wealthy hacienda owners and stuff. Pretty sure most of them got off with a slap of the wrist."

"Of course they did," she muttered.

“Yeah. Anyway, point is one of them must have died, because he’s here. I guess that shouldn't be too surprising." He hadn't thought of that before. When bad men died and their family didn’t want them, it made sense that many would find their way into the murky depths of Shantytown. 

“Oh,” she said again, her voice quiet, almost nervous. “So you don’t like him… because he’s a _joto_?”

“What? Oh, no, I... no, that’s not quite…” He paused, frowning, unsure what to say or feel. If the man had just been a dancer in a dress he wouldn't care so much. But that didn't seem to be the case— quite the opposite, it seemed. Glancing over to the girl, living alone in Shantytown, he had to at least give her some warning.

“Just be careful,” he said, and held back from reaching out to touch her. “He’s dangerous— a criminal who fought under Huerta. I guess he helped fight against the Mayans.”

“A _Huertista?”_ she repeated after a long pause, a sudden darkness in her voice, a low storm of anger. “Those were the men who took me from my family. Who took…” 

“They took you?” Héctor said when her words faded, having a sinking feeling what she was talking about.

“ _B_ _astardos._ They didn’t have anyone to make food and care for them, so they came to our village and took all the young women they could find. And so they got me.” Silence, broken only by their muffled footsteps, and then a sigh. “I couldn't go home after that.”

Héctor looked to her, the way she held herself, and thought how young she seemed. A woman, certainly, yet too young to have that weight on her narrow shoulders.

“I’m so sorry.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “I _hate_ those kind of men, soldiers and the rest, and there’s so many of them here. Who knows what they’d do if they found me. It’s why I have to be careful. No one...  _no one_ can know where I live. All right?"

“I... all right. I won't tell anyone. But I mean… not all soldiers are bad,” he said, unsure what to say. Would she be afraid of him, if she knew? It sounded like a terrifying life. He wasn't sure how he could help. 

She shook her head. “You can’t understand. You have no idea… some men deserve hell.”

He remembered that cold night, copper and salt, and instinctively curled his hands and held them tight at his side. Maybe he understood better than she might think. Some men did deserve hell.

They came to the grand house where he lived, looking bright and impressive amidst the other nearby shacks, gaily lit with candles in the windows. But as they got closer, Héctor noticed the woman had stopped. He turned to see her a few paces back, staring up at the house, her face unreadable.

“ _Señorita?_ You okay? _”_

“This is where you live?” she asked in a breathless whisper.

“Uh, yeah.” He glanced up at the two-story building, and thought perhaps it seemed excessive compared to the shabby shacks she lived around, including her own. “Don’t let it fool you. There’s a bunch of us who live here, not just me. I’m just the guitar-player.”

In the darkness, he just barely saw her shake her head and take a step back. He frowned and moved closer, putting a light hand on her shoulder.

“ _Señorita?”_

The tramp of approaching feet made them both turn and look to see a half dozen men coming around a corner, talking and laughing.

“Ay, _músico!_ ” a familiar voice called out. “Where did you slip off to?”

He opened his mouth to shout back a reply, but all that came out was a grunt as the woman shoved him hard in the chest, knocking him back so he stumbled and fell to the ground. When he looked up it was to see her sprinting away.

“Ah- wait!” Héctor cried out, reaching out to her, but his voice was quickly overtaken by others shouting.

“What the hell?”

“Someone stop her!”

Suddenly men were racing towards her, and they were fast.

“Hey, stop!“ Héctor began to call out, staggering to his knees. No one seemed to hear him. “What are you—“

“You okay?”

Héctor looked up to see Alvaro stepping forward and pulling him up by the elbow.

“Wha- yeah, I’m- _hey_! Leave her alone!”

He heard a strangled shriek from her, and could barely see as she kicked and squirmed in the arms of the taller of the two men who had caught up to her.

“ _Get off me!”_ she shouted, plus other words and swears he could barely catch.

“Let her go!” Héctor shouted, beginning to run towards them. “Stop! She didn’t do anything!”

There was a whirl of skirt and then the man holding her was on the ground, and so was she. In a blink she was up and running again, and Héctor lunged forward, just barely able to catch the arm of the shorter man who made as if to pursue.

“Leave her be,” Héctor said, gasping and staring at the shrinking figure.

“Who was she?” the man said, shrugging off his hand and stooping to help his friend up. “Did she steal from you? Some _puta_?”

“No! No, she…” He shook his head, almost dizzy from the sharp turn of events. What had just happened?

“Ugh, the bitch kicked me right in my bad knee,” the fallen man said, shaking his leg for a moment before standing normally. “You all right then, _hombre_?” He said, turning to Héctor.

“Huh? Y-yeah. I’m fine.” That was a lie.

“Ah, forget her,” the taller man said, dusting off the seat of his pants. “Come on, let’s head back.”Héctor nodded mutely, more shaken than he would have cared to admit.

“The hell was that about?” Alvaro said mildly as they approached, easily walking in step beside him into the house. For a moment Héctor paused and stared down the empty, shadowed street, aware of the faint tremor in his bones. A lingering sickness.

“I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on actual history, the infamous ‘Dance of the Forty-One’ in 1901. Although the government tried to hush it up, it became well-publicized, especially since the men were affluent, high-society members associated with the Porfirio Diaz administration (that the Revolution was fought against).  
> This scandal is considered “the invention of homosexuality in Mexico.” (Carlos Monsiváis)  
> By the way, homosexuality wasn’t officially illegal, but the 1871 Penal Code included the vague "attack on morality and proper customs," that was used to persecute homosexuals.
> 
> The song is from "Insurgent Mexico" by John Reed, 1914. It was also one of my big references  
> Next chapter: Héctor has a panic attack, and reacts badly.


	11. Terror and Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Héctor is just trying to settle in to his new life in Shantytown with a less than desirable group of men. Then an almost-familiar face shows up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: contains references to sexual assault and homophobia.  
> Big thank you to my betareaders, TomatoSoupful and BabyCharmander!
> 
> *Update*: This chapter now has _fanart_!! Done by the lovely [BabyCharmander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyCharmander/pseuds/BabyCharmander) (also a great writer), it's a scene from the beginning of the chapter. You can see it [here](https://bcdrawsandwrites.tumblr.com/post/181746500858/another-illustration-from-papergardeners-fic) (poor Hector).
> 
>  

December 1925

_Mi Querida,_

_Happy Nochebuena!_

Héctor grinned, leaning back and looking at the freshly-penciled words, idly drawing a few small stars around them as he thought about the last Christmas Eve he had celebrated with his family. Coco had walked from door to door for Las Posadas, but in the end he carried her to the last few houses, with Imelda by his side.

_I hope you and Coco are celebrating with your brothers and your family, and you’re all together. ~~Did you light a candle for~~ I’m spending the evening with ~~frien~~ the men I live with and we’re keeping cheerful._

Looking up, he caught the dying refrain of a drunken song that was overtaken by a conversation on the other side of the room. There he saw Paolo, a young, energetic man who bragged about the men he had killed in the Revolution ( _“I kept shooting prisoners until my hand got tired, so I switched hands. Eighty-seven between me and two others!”_ ).

Héctor grimaced a little before focusing his attention back to the page before him.

_Oh yeah, good news! I have a job with a mariachi group, first gig is next Friday. If things go well I might be able to get consistent work. If not then I’m going to try and find some work at that furniture maker. They always say they like good, young folk to help carry the heavy stuff, and the pay’s all right._

Yeah, things would work out, he reminded himself. A new job, and he had earned a little money that day playing festive music near one of the grander churches. During the holiday season it was one of the better places to be with skeletons going to pray for the souls of the living and that they would hopefully move on to a better place after their Final Death. Héctor was good at knowing when to play cheerful or when to play somber, and it reminded him of past _posadas_ when he was alive. The good ones, not the ones of his childhood.

It wasn’t all that bad. He was surviving, and little by little he was saving up. When Coco or Imelda arrived, he wanted to be ready.

If he worked hard and was careful, maybe he could earn enough to buy a real home in the upper land—his family deserved that, at least. Then they could be together again, he was sure of it. He would get someplace with plenty of space so Coco could have her own room, and a nice big kitchen and a good view. Someplace where he didn’t have to feel on edge all the time, where he could be himself.

A new song began from the corner of the room, lead by a too-strong baritone, that quickly tapered off to laughter.

_Did you and Coco sing together at mass? I may try to go tonight, but it’s not the same. I miss your voice, your touch._

His music helped. Every night he went to the same old dock and sang his song to Coco, and it was a comfort and a penance. It was lonely, however. The strange girl never showed up again. Once he had gone to her little shack to apologize, but she had shouted through the door that she never wanted to see him, and he was never—never—to go there again. She had screamed that he leave her alone.

So he left her alone after that.

It was lonelier without her, and he tapped his pencil as he sighed at that thought. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe she had only been a distraction from more important things, and it wasn’t fair for him to try and be happy.

_Give Coco a big kiss and an extra hug tonight. Please tell her how much her Papá loves her and misses her every day. Both of you._

_Take care, mi am-_

The book was yanked from his hands, a long pencil streak marring the words he had just written.

“Hey!”

“What’s this? Your diary?” Gerardo said, grinning wide as he held the book up before his eyes. He was one of the more dangerous men there, burly and quick to anger, but at that moment Héctor didn’t care.

“Give that back!” Héctor said loudly, struggling to his feet.

But Gerardo stepped back and held it high, facing the room at large.

“Who here can read?”

The conversation from earlier had stopped, and a crowd was gathering to watch as they tossed his notebook around until finally it got into the hands of someone who knew his letters. He began to read aloud to jeers.

“’Imelda, _mi vida,_ _I miss you_ ,’” he said in a high, false voice, while Héctor could only stand there and listen to the laughter all around him. “’I hope you were happy today.’ What is this? You serious, man? Writing letters to your _puta_?”

“Ha! What are you, some prissy _maricón_?”

Héctor flinched at that, and felt himself shaking. “That’s for my wife. Now give it back.”

There were hoots and hollers to that, and Héctor felt his fingers grating against each other as he curled them into fists.

“So what? She ain’t here, right?” one man called out.

“Ay, where’s she at, then?” Gerardo said with a great laugh. “Bring her over, we’d love to meet her, eh?”

“Awww, you miss your wife!” someone called out in a sing-song voice, reaching forward as if to pinch his cheekbone, and Héctor slapped the hand away.

He stepped forward to forcibly take the book but was held back, and was shocked to see Alvaro gripping his arm.

“Come on, they’re just having a little fun,” Alvaro said, grinning a lazy grin. “Don’t take it so seriously.”

Héctor felt himself go cold at those words.

_Don’t worry, muchacho... we’re just going to have a little fun._

“Let go!” he shouted, violently yanking his arm, the bone nearly separating from his shoulder with a wrenching pain.

Alvaro frowned, his eyes darkening. “Hey, relax. What’s your problem?”

“God, this is some faggy stuff you’ve got written here,” one man said with a sneer, and it was like ripping the air from his lungs.

“I wrote that for my wife,” Héctor said, feeling increasingly small, even as he forced himself to stand straight and glare hard. “Now give that back!”

Everything about this reeked of danger, and the laughter and the yells were increasingly pounding in his head.

“Eh _músico, aqui_!” Javier said, stepping up and plucking the book out of the other man’s hands, and holding it out.

“Thank you,” Héctor said, suddenly aware how breathless he was, and unsure if it was simply anger making him tremble.

Javier patted him on the shoulder. “Of course! We’re all amigos here, eh?”

Héctor only nodded, needing desperately to be alone, but couldn’t move. The noise around him shifted, moved, and some far-off part of his mind registered that Gerardo had gathered everyone’s attention with some story or other. It didn’t matter; what mattered was it allowed him to escape, holding the thin leather cover with an iron grip before tucking it away into the pouch at his hip. He would never bring it out in the open again. Not there.

“Fucking hell, Héctor,” Alvaro said. following him into a dark hallway as the crowd dispersed. “What were you thinking?”

“Leave me alone,” Héctor snapped, glaring at him and feeling betrayed. In any case he didn’t want to talk to anyone. Especially not with how much he was shaking.

“Oy, _listen_.” Alvaro gripped his arm, tight. When Héctor tried to wrench it away he only held tighter and stepped close, backing him against a wall and speaking in a low, dark voice. “Don’t let that happen again, all right? You freaking out—“

“I didn’t—“

“You damn well did,” Alvaro said, cutting him off and yanking him closer, his fingers grinding against his arm. It was starting to hurt, and all Héctor wanted to do was run. “You show that kind of weakness again and they’ll eat you alive. You have no idea—no idea—who you’re dealing with.”

“I… j-just back off! I can take care of myself!” Héctor said, hating how his voice almost trembled.

“Not like that, you won’t. You have no fucking idea what they can do. If you want to survive, you can’t be weak. That shit you just pulled? That stupid little diary? If you don’t want anyone to think you’re some little maricón wanting to be fucked, then you need to stop acting like it.”

“I’m not…“ He was cut off by a familiar voice in his head.

_Just some fucking little puto…_

“T-the hell do you know!” Héctor said fiercely, struggling to keep his voice low and yanking his arm back. “Now let go!”

“I’m serious, Héctor.” Alvaro let go, but the hardness in his eyes didn’t waver. “Be careful.”

Héctor hesitated a moment, trapped under the other man’s gaze, before he turned away and left, keeping his head down and hands clutched tight at his sides.

He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t... he wouldn’t let that happen again. Not again, never fucking again. No one would know. He would survive this damn place and these men and he would find his way out.

He left and walked fast, past the dark houses and the usual glares, the suspicious looks from the rest of the world that told him _you’re not welcome here_. His feet carried him through the stone gateway, up the great steps, and away from the whole, rotten world of theirs. As he climbed higher a breeze brushed against the edges of his jacket, slipping through his bones like cracked glass. Once he reached the top, gasping and shivering, he turned and stared down at the half-sunken land, dotted with sickly yellow lights and interspersed with raucous, off-key music.

He didn’t belong there. This place could never be his home.

But there was nowhere for him to go. No one he could turn to.

No family, no friends… no one who wanted him.

Somewhere, in an empty street he didn’t recognize, he stopped, gasping for breath, hunched over and shaking.

He was alone.

Alvaro was right. They were just teasing him, he told himself furiously, running a hand through his hair and then down his face. Despite the lack of skin, he felt uncomfortably hot, yet shivering uncontrollably. The faint noise he had been hearing was, in fact, his bones rattling against each other, a faint buzz that he didn’t want to hear. Or maybe the roaring, rhythmic sound in his mind was something else.

He pulled out the soft-leather journal, making sure it was in his hands, that it was real. From within the pages he pulled forth a photo and breathed a great sigh of relief. It was his greatest treasure, one of the only things to have crossed over with him. In silence he stared at the familiar scene, Imelda with Coco laughing and looking up towards him. Imelda had thought the second photo had been better, more respectable, but Héctor had cherished this one, of his daughter looking so happy.

He let his head fall back and his hand go limp over his knee. Was it wrong to love his wife and daughter? Was it really so pathetic? He set the photo back and held the book close to his chest, and remembered to breathe. And then remembered he didn’t need to. He was dead.

He was dead, and his wife and daughter were alive, and… and he couldn’t be with them.

Shivering and cold, he pulled his arms tight around himself, and it didn’t help. God, he missed them. Closing his eyes, he imagined Imelda—his determined, wonderful wife. He imagined what she would do if she could see him like this.

But she didn’t seem to care about him. No one did.

If he disappeared, would anyone notice?

As that question rose to his mind, he let out a shuddered breath and realized he already knew the answer to that question.

No one, not one person living or dead, gave a damn about him. He bowed his head close and tried not to think about them, or of white bones, or of laughter or hands running hot and cold down his body, or of the pain-

 _No!_ His eyes flew open. Why was he thinking about that? He gripped his head tight and pressed hard. _Stop, stop, don’t think about it._

It was in the past, and it would stay there, buried in his heart, in his bones.

He was fine. He was safe.

No, he was dead. He was alone. He was… he was…

_Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it._

As time passed the trembling stopped until he was simply exhausted, like his muscles had seized up, his heart having beaten too fast and leaving him weak. But that was impossible because he was dead. No pulsing blood or beating heart. Less than himself. Incomplete. Empty.

In the distance he heard the tolling of a bell, and then, faintly, another from further away. It must be from a midnight mass, and told him that it was late. Maybe families were going home.

He wished he knew where to go.

He must have fallen asleep, and might very well had stayed there until morning, except soon there were shouts jerking him awake.

“Ay, get out of here! _¡Fuera!_ ”

“Huh?” Héctor wearily lifted his head, seeing a well-dressed man standing before him on the street. “Ah… _perdon_ —“

“Piss off!” the man cried, waving his hand. “Go sleep somewhere else, ya bum!”

“Sorry,” Héctor said slowly, heaving himself up and backing away from the furious man, aware of the woman in a nightgown peering from the doorway, as lights began to flicker in windows overhead. “Sorry, I didn’t mean any trouble.”

The man made a throaty noise and jerked his chin, and Héctor left, feeling as worthless as the dirt he walked on. But he hadn’t done anything wrong; he was just tired. He just wanted to sleep. When he came to the main road, he paused, not knowing where he was or where he should go. Maybe it didn’t matter.

He didn’t belong in Shantytown. He didn’t belong with those men. He wasn’t being forgotten, he had family. Just… not there.

He wished he could go home. He wished he knew where that was anymore.

When he finally found the familiar entrance that descended into Shantytown, he stopped in the middle of the road and felt even more exhausted. Directly before him, blocking the whole space, were a great many skeletons shouting at each other. As he watched a fight nearly break out between the two sides, one man lunging forward as if to grab one of the others. He could only catch a few of the words and insults hurled about, but it was enough to get the gist of it, and he knew he wanted nothing to do with them. At least one man seemed to really like shouting ‘ _bastardo_ ’ twice a minute. Another’s preference was ‘ _puto_.’

Héctor just wanted to sleep.

How long were they going to be standing there? If it was longer than five minutes, it would be too long. Could he slip around? Not likely. Not without getting involved in the soon-to-be brawl, it seemed. Maybe he could find somewhere else to just sleep for the night.

A slight noise behind him made him turn to see another man walking up and then stopping, apparently in the same dilemma, stuck on the wrong side. Héctor sighed and looked back to the quarrel. At least he wasn’t the only one suffering, he thought dismally. Then to his surprise there was the faint sound of fading footsteps. He straightened and saw the other skeleton walk away, going left down a dark little street. Did he know another way? As far as he knew, this was the only place to get in or out.

Héctor glanced at the enraged mob, saw someone throw a punch, heard a shrill shriek and more swearing, and decided to follow the man. As long as he kept his distance, he wouldn’t even know Héctor was there. He lingered back, watching him turn and then travel along a tall stone wall that separated the upper world from the lower, too tall to go over. As far as he knew there were no paths down this way, yet he continued to follow the shadowy figure ahead. Twice the man paused and seemed to look back, but Héctor was careful to keep hidden, and the man kept going, if walking faster than before so Héctor had to almost run to keep up.

But when he came to a long open stretch between buildings and the stone wall, the man had disappeared. Héctor hesitated and then rushed forward, but he was apparently alone, and very possibly lost. A slight noise from the exact other side of the wall made him jump, and that was how he found the hidden opening, little more than a black gash in the wall. He ran his hand along the edge, and then slipped through to a narrow stone ledge overlooking the moonlit Land of the Forgotten, the far-off water gleaming black and white.

But he was still alone, the other skeleton nowhere to be seen. Héctor gazed about, looking left and right, peering all the way down, and even behind him at the tall stone wall, but there was no one. How could he have disappeared so fast?

Héctor shivered and clutched his arms around himself.

“Ay, ay, place gives me the creeps,” he muttered, rubbing his arms and looking around again. Regardless of what others might say or do, he was becoming more and more sure that there really were ghosts lurking in the land of _Los Olvidados_.

Again he peered down from where he stood, wondering if he should risk it, or turn back and go through the usual archway. But he really wanted to go sleep, and this seemed faster, if far from easy.

He began to climb down the great stone steps, carefully lowering himself over each ledge one by one, slipping and falling hard on the fourth and feeling like he’d chipped something.

“Ugh, this was a terrible idea,” he said, groaning as he picked himself up before crawling to the next. “Last time I follow a ghost, _ay mi_ …”

Héctor glanced at the distance to go, and was glad to see it was only one more step of the pyramid, except this last one was twice as high. He leaned over, rubbing his chin and wondering the best way to go down without shattering something.

“Now how do I…”

A noise from above him made him look up, and there he saw was a figure standing far above, a pitch-black outline against faint stars. Héctor jumped, nearly falling off the ledge.

“Ay! What the—?“

“It is you,” the man said in a low, shocked voice.

“Uhh… _que_?” Héctor said, squinting up. Was it someone he knew? Maybe someone he lived with? The voice almost sounded familiar.

“Wait. Just… wait right there.” The man quickly moved towards him, jumping down each step with relative ease. But where had he come from? Had he been watching Héctor that whole time? Soon enough he came to the same broad ledge as him, straightening and stepping closer.

“If you’re trying to get down, there’s a path to the right. Look, see over there?” He pointed to a deep shadow by the point of the pyramid. “It’s not much, just a break in the stone, but that’s the best way to go if you don’t want to jump.”

“Oh, uh… thanks.” Héctor glanced sideways at him. The voice definitely sounded a little familiar, but there wasn’t enough light to truly see by. “Sorry, but, uh, do I know you?”

“N-no… not really.” He turned to look around, as if checking to see if they were alone. Héctor did the same and found the place was entirely deserted, with not another soul in sight. The realization made him strangely nervous.

“Look,” the man said, catching his attention again. “I’m not sure if you remember me, but I wanted to well… See, a few days ago I had dropped something and you were trying to be kind and I rather, um, snapped at you. I—“

“You!” Héctor said, a sudden terror, or perhaps fury, pulsing through him. “You’re that Forty-One!”

The man jerked backwards, and for a moment his wide eyes caught the reflected light of the thin moon. Then his shoulders dropped. “Oh… so you found out.”

“I did,” Héctor bit out through gritted teeth. Dammit. How had he ended up alone with him again? Alone?

The way he saw it, he had two choices: run, or stand and fight. Something tightened in his chest.

_I’m not going to be weak. I’m not going to let anyone else hurt me again. Not again. Never again._

“Right… of course,” the man said bitterly, then let out a low breath. “Look, I just wanted to—“

“I don’t want anything from you!” Héctor moved away from him and realized his hands were curled into fists. He took another step backwards, wondering if he could outrun him. Except there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

“Hey, careful!” The man lunged forward, grabbing his arm.

“Don’t touch me!” Héctor shouted, yanking his arm away. He took another step back and then, as if someone froze the hands of time, he was falling into nothing, facing the dark open sky overhead. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was moving, or only in slow motion…

Then time jumped forward and hard stone slammed into him, his bones shattering all around with a horrible clatter, his world shuddering as his eyes rattled in his head. Everything was moving and then it all stilled, and he could only groan.

From somewhere not far away, he heard the man swear sharply and then sounds of movement.

Panic roiled through him as he looked around at his scattered bones, only just beginning to rattle and creep closer. He was defenseless, and the man was moving fast. Héctor willed his bones towards him, but he didn’t know what he was doing; he didn’t know how to control it. “Come on,” he muttered, imagining his arms and his legs pulling together. “Come on, almost there…”

The man landed beside him, and Héctor was nearly together, his arms and feet all rattling into place, his left ankle the final piece to make him whole.

“Hey, are you all right?” the man said, just as Héctor managed to stagger onto trembling legs, avoiding the outstretched hand.

“Don’t come any closer,” Héctor said, gasping against the sense of everything feeling wrong. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t breath. There were hands running along his back, hot breath in his ear-

“Okay, okay!” the man said, a tinge of anger to his voice even as he took a small step back, putting up his hands. “I’m just trying to help—“

“Don’t…” Héctor said through clenched teeth, terror and rage fighting within him. “Don’t even get near me! You… Javier warned me about you.”

There was a sharp intake of breath and then the man moved back as Héctor took another step towards him.

_Don’t be weak. Don’t be weak._

He couldn’t be afraid. He wouldn’t let anyone take advantage of him again. A terrible fury rushed through him, strange and disorienting, while the man only backed up more, tripping and staggering into the shadow of the wall. Good. Let someone else be afraid for once.

Héctor stood tall, taller than the other man, and stepped forward.

“Wait—“ the man began to say, but Héctor barely heard.

“You… if you ever come near me again, I swear... I swear to God…” His voice trailed away, and he found he was shaking. “Just stay the hell away from me!”

Unable to bear another moment near him, he backed away before turning and walking fast, his clenched hands tight at his side and his whole body tense. Once he reached the corner to the next street he dared to glance back, and thought he saw the man still there against the shadow of the wall, but it was hard to see. At least he hadn’t been followed.

A few gray skeletons lingered around a fire and watched him warily as he passed. He was aware of the silence that followed in his wake, at the glares against his back. For once, he thought he deserved it.

He was alone when he finally found an empty place, an old carcass of a building, burnt and blackened from long before, and stopped there, breathing hard. He closed his eyes and sank to the ground, putting his arms around himself as he held back the waves of nausea.

Dammit. _Dammit!_

He didn’t want to be near that man, or touched by him. It felt dirty, filthy… shameful. There was another feeling he didn’t want to admit, but rose up his throat like sour bile… fear. He prayed no one would find him like that. He wished he could vanish, could disappear.

He wanted to go home.

But there was nowhere to go.

For a long time he lay curled up, the wall hard against his spine, and tried not to think, or feel, or sob. He kept the memory of his family far, far away as he struggled to not gag at the memory of a hand twisting in his hair and hot breath against his skin.

_Bet you like it, you filthy little puto!_

He curled in tighter on himself, and tried to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… Héctor is not coping well. But this was something he was gonna have to deal with sooner or later (I know this isn’t actually dealing with it but… progress?)
> 
> Interesting thing when I first started toeing down the path of Héctor being raped, one of my first thoughts was:
> 
> ‘I can’t do that! It doesn’t fit with his character, he’s too happy and optimistic. If he’d been raped then he couldn’t be hap-… oh.’
> 
> And I realized how messed up that line of thinking was. Rape doesn’t define a person, and I had unconsciously came to the idea that all rape survivors would be miserable and traumatized their whole life, and that’s fucked up of me. Honestly, that’s probably the final thing that made me realize I could and should have this story arc for him, because while it does impact him, it doesn’t fundamentally change who he is, and he’s still the same, amazing man we all know. (also it became an important part of his story)
> 
> But at least for a while, he hasn’t reached that mindset, and thinks that it has forever defiled him. He’s determined to not be a victim.
> 
> This is going to backfire. Soon.
> 
> Next chapter: we’re going to take a little break and check on Imelda in the present.  
> I know this was a pretty dark chapter, but hopefully you're all still enjoying it. Comments always appreciated <3


	12. Night Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imelda can’t sleep and it’s Héctor’s fault. Finally, she decides to seek him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick breather chapter! (and a welcome break from the last one... and for the next one)  
> Big thank you to BabyCharmander for betaing!

All that evening Imelda thought about Héctor, and it was getting on her nerves.

In the past, both in life and death, she would simply force those thoughts away and refuse to think about him. She could no longer afford to do that and so she lay awake in bed and dwelled on her husband. Her head turned on the pillow and looked at the empty space at her side. Was he also lying awake, maybe thinking about her as well?

Perhaps she should have invited him to stay that night, rather than make him walk all the way back on his limp. He didn’t belong there anymore. He was no longer being forgotten, and he had family to live with, and yet he was alone and far away in Shantytown. Shutting her eyes tight, she imagined him somewhere cold and miserable, laying on a dusty floor in a half-rotten home, surrounded by trash and ruined plans to see his family again. Had that been what his afterlife was like for so many years? Alone?

No… not alone.

She tossed under the blanket, curling in on herself. He had taken another woman to his bed—had even admitted as much. Of course, they had been just friends; he swore there had been nothing between them. But he had said the same thing about that other woman, Maris, and Imelda couldn’t shake the feeling there was something more between them, despite his promise. There was so much she didn’t know, and now with knowledge of this new ‘other woman’…

The scene in her mind changed. She saw him slowly sit up in the gloom, facing away from her, reaching out a hand to the empty air as if desperately searching for something, beckoning…

From the darkness, a shadowy woman stepped forward and took his hand, and allowed herself to be brought to his bed, lying down beside him. As Imelda watched, Héctor pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her, and the woman curled her hands around his back, leaned her head forward and kissed him…

Imelda shot up and threw the blankets off.

There would be no good in sleeping. She fumbled with a match on her bedside table and lit a candle, shielding it as it sputtered and settled. The image of Héctor kissing another woman wouldn’t leave her mind, his hands raking through her hair, resting upon her hip…

No. He had said nothing happened. They just… slept together.

There was nothing she could do about it then, she reminded herself. It was the middle of the night, surely he’d be asleep. Perhaps she should read for a little bit. Distract herself. But that was no good, either. Her eyes kept drifting off the page to stare aimlessly about her room, wondering about all she had learned. Imelda found her mind turning his words over and over, trying to make sense of it all.

Maybe things were just different in Shantytown, and it wasn’t so strange to share clothing when they didn’t have much, and that they wouldn’t want them to get dirty. And things were different with bones, maybe nudity didn’t bother them after being dead so long.

Then there seemed to be a whole story about their meeting, one she never quite got an answer for why they would have had to take their clothes off when they first met. Something had happened, and whether it was fishing or swimming, it seemed suspicious. And then he had stolen someone’s rib…

He was hiding something, no question. But what? And  _ why _ ?

Tomorrow when he came by, she would sit him down and demand answers, she decided, staring into the darkness. Her eyes flickered to the open book in her lap and wondered if he had already tried to tell her.

He had tried countless times to reach out to her, although only rarely did he dare try to talk to her in person, not when she would react so brutally to him.

So instead, he had relied upon letters.

It made sense, in a way. Small, unassuming bits of paper with her name upon it. In her mailbox, or slipped through a window, or laid carefully upon the mat with flowers tied with a ribbon. To him at least, it would make sense.

To her, it was especially cruel.

For so long she had waited for letters from him, days and weeks and months passing without a single word. Even after years, there was still sometimes a faint, frustrating hope that maybe he was still out there thinking of her, that one day a letter might come, and she would curse herself for relying on false hope. She knew Coco had sought him out before her wedding, although her daughter had been careful to keep it a secret from her. But Imelda knew, and she knew that no letter ever arrived, and Héctor wasn’t there for his own daughter, and Imelda’s heart hardened further.

And then she died, and he had found her, arriving in a clean, trim suit with nothing but his hat in his hands and hope on his lips. It was too late. Seeing him there, as dead as her and so young… she should have realized something was wrong, but she had been so angry, so hurt at all the years he had missed. Whenever she had found another letter from him, the anger would return. Sometimes they had flowers tied with a ribbon, or small gifts. A silver coin. A fresh pan dulce on her window sill. Somehow, that made it all worse. Every time she would throw the letters in the trash, sometimes crumpling them up first for good measure. It was only the last few years that he had finally stopped and respected her wishes. Or maybe he had given up on her.

That thought put a chill on her. Perhaps he had stopped loving her as well. How much pain can a heart take before it’s too much? Thinking back, she might even know the breaking point.

One cold night she had even caught him in the act, standing on her doorstep (on their anniversary, she later realized). She had been awake still, already stressed and tired when she had heard his voice from outside. Without thinking she had gone and thrown open the door. He had stood there, shocked at her sudden appearance, wearing a handsome mariachi suit with a bouquet in his hands and another damn letter. Barely thinking beyond her fury, she had stormed out and shouted… terrible things. Looking back on it now, she had to close her eyes and try not to think about what she had said. Or the look on his face.

She had torn that letter. Right in front of him. Taken those flowers and thrown them to the ground.

And then she had hit him.

He hadn’t tried to defend himself. It had been loud and harsh, and her hand had stung for a long time. But the pain in her hand had faded faster than the memory of his face when he had looked to her again, like she had hurt him beyond belief. And she had.

Had he forgiven her for that? Would he still remember? It seemed like it would be hard to forget. After that, he didn’t show his face for years. That had been the last letter he ever gave her, and she had burned it until it was nothing but cold ash, and she moved on.

All that time, she thought she had been justified. She assumed Héctor had been trying to manipulate her into falling for him again, but had sworn she wouldn’t make that mistake. She would not allow herself to keep that temptation, to let herself feel that same pain again. Therefore, she had thrown away every one.

Although… had she?

She sat up straight in her bed, looking around the room with new eyes. Perhaps there  _ was _ something she could do in her restless mood. For all those years, he just wanted to speak with her. What had he tried so hard to tell her?

Just one letter, she thought, slipping out of bed and lighting a second candle. If she could find that, she could sleep in peace. She couldn’t turn back time, or erase the pain of the past, but maybe she could finally listen.

An hour later—the small clock upon her bedside table read 12:26—she was sitting by her vanity, face in her hands.

Nothing.

Not a single note, not even a scrap.

Sitting there, her room upheaved, she wondered once again how much she had hurt him by refusing him.

She glanced over the pile of papers that she had found instead, collected from over fifty years. There were misplaced receipts, records of her first loan, letters from admirers and potential business partners, which sometimes amounted to the same thing.

Her eyes fell on one pale envelope and she glared at it. It had seemed like the same paper as what he usually wrote on, with  _ Imelda Rivera _ in script on its face. But when she opened it, it had begun,

_ Estimada Señora Rivera, _

_ I am writing to you on behalf— _

And she quickly shoved it back in the envelope, feeling cheated.

Looking about the room, thinking of all the attempts he had made to show how much he loved her still, she was struck by how much she had hurt him. Why wouldn’t he find someone else? Maybe not someone he had loved, but at least someone who wouldn’t crush his heart under her heel every time he tried to talk to her.

And if he had, Imelda would not be surprised if he would want to keep it a secret from her. He probably didn’t want to hurt her. Or perhaps he regretted it, or was ashamed at his infidelity. It may well have been a short, desperate affair. Maybe a drunken mistake one lonely night. She could understand that, longing simply to be held once again.

Of course, maybe it had been longer than one night. A lot could happen in ninety years. Maybe he had once believed he was in love and later realized he wasn’t. Had this Aida, who he had lived with so long, been such a woman?

Her hand clenched at the flare of anger at the thought of him in bed with another, then slowly loosened it at the painful reminder that she would have been the one who had pushed him into it.

_ You never tried to find him, to speak to him. Not once _ .

The words moved through her mind like a memory. Her eyes lingered on the false letter, thinking of all the times he had reached out to her, again and again, words and papers instead of olive branches. Perhaps it was time she reached out as well.

She threw on a heavy robe and walked out to the balcony, breathing in the cool air. It was mostly clear out, with a bright almost-full moon and a few drifting clouds.

A good time to fly.

Climbing up the ladder to the open courtyard over their home, she gave a low whistle. Pepita answered quicker than she had expected, with a strangely human expression on her face, as if wondering what took her so long.

“We’ll only be out a short while,” Imelda said softly, petting her glossy, bright fur. There was still work to be done in the morning, and she wasn’t a young woman anymore who could stay up all night without repercussions. But this was something she needed to do.

She climbed up, settling between Pepita’s large shoulder blades, and made a soft clicking noise. It was more for her sake than her  _ alebrije's _ , who often had a mind of her own when it came to this sort of thing. With a great spread of wings they took off, Pepita surprisingly quiet for her great size, and in seconds they were in the air, weaving in and out of the twisting, jumbled buildings, stacked upon each other and reaching higher than should have been possible. Then they were above it all, soaring in the open night, the stars and the moon the only thing above, and the great expanse of the world below.

“Take me to him,” she said softly, eyes fixed upon the strange, low place where the almost-Forgotten lived, looking sinister from where she sat, a ghostly fog over the black waters. Pepita gave only a mild huff in reply and spread her wings in a long, graceful glide, the wind ruffling the tips of her feathers, a soft noise in the otherwise empty sky.

Imelda expected the place to be dark and somber, but as they flew over she saw that it was colorfully lit with candles and strings of lights. Then she caught the sound of music and laughter, even so late at night. Perhaps they didn’t mind staying up, knowing how precious time was. Who knew what day, what hour, might be their last?

Pepita swung her head left and right, sniffing and looking about. Once or twice someone would glance up at them, and Imelda wondered if they were anything more than a fleeting shadow high overhead. There was a change, a great beat of wings and Pepita began to lazily circle over one house, a small shack far below, decorated with golden lights.

“This? Is that his home?” she said, peering over. It didn’t look like much, a squat little hut, and yet some of the tension in her heart eased. All considered, it didn’t seem so bad, nestled in amongst the other houses all around, looking warm and welcoming, if meager.

“So this is where he lived,” Imelda said softly, feeling she was maybe finally learning something about him. But Pepita gave a sharp toss of her head, as if shaking off a fly. Imelda frowned. “What? But if this isn’t it, then where…”

But before she finished they were moving again, keeping high over the buildings. Imelda noticed how the lights grew dimmer, the houses farther apart. Then the lights disappeared all together and Pepita was flying over dark water interspersed with squat shapes of black that showed where the houses were, or perhaps had been. The place seemed empty.

“No… this can’t be it,” Imelda whispered.

Something had to be wrong. Had Pepita caught the wrong scent? Or was she about to turn and go back to the earlier place? Then they stopped, hovering over a little shack on the edge of the great sea, far from everywhere else. Imelda sat up, peering over her  _ alebrije's _ shoulder, and felt the wind blow cold over her.

“Here? Héctor lives  _ here _ ?”

There was no reply. They flew lower, almost skirting the roof. But there seemed to be nowhere to land, nowhere to go. No way for her to get down and go look into the building for herself. Perhaps it was for the best. She wasn’t sure if she actually wanted to talk to Héctor, now that she was there. Not yet, anyway. This, though, was worse than she had thought.

Even the building looked lonely, small and dark against the softly-reflecting water. There didn’t seem to be much else nearby, and no lights. Was he already asleep?

She sat up straight and looked at the rest of the land of the almost-Forgotten, at the strings of soft golden glows, the shacks cozied near each other. There was laughter over there. Warmth. Light.

Looking back down, she saw none of those things.

This was where he lived?

Her shoulders hunched forward, a fresh breeze making her shiver. He was living in that miserable little shack down there all that time. For all those years…

Because of her.

_ Did you ever once think about how much pain he has suffered because of you? _

Who had told her that? Who’s voice was in her head, besides her own now echoing those same terrible thoughts.

Why didn’t she just listen to him?

Why didn’t she trust that he had been trying to come home?

After she died, she had never really thought about what his afterlife had been like. She much preferred not to think of it. But ever since Dia de Los Muertos, after learning he had been living in Shantytown, she had wondered. Well, perhaps  _ assumed  _ would be the better word, after learning how desperate he was to reach out to see Coco, seeing the physical state he was in.

She had assumed he had spent his years alone and devoted to trying to cross the bridge, or trying to reconnect with her. There had been a strong mental image of him huddled in a small shack- quite similar to the one she had seen- and despondent over missing his family. Miserable.

Then she remembered what he had said about that other woman, that they had lived together. Shared a  _ home _ . Thinking back, she wondered what he must have gone through to call such a sad little place home.

Pepita made a faint rumble in her chest, and Imelda looked over, afraid that Héctor might hear them. There was no sound, no sign of movement, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Let’s go,” she murmured, her eyes lingering on the dark house below as Pepita turned in a great loop. As they flew higher and higher into the sky, she felt her soul lift as well.

Miguel had been right: Héctor was part of their family. It was time she started acting like it, and bring him home.

There was a twinge at that thought. She wasn’t sure she was ready to live under the same roof as him. It meant seeing him at breakfast every morning, and hearing his footsteps creak to bed every night. A different bed, of course, in the spare room that she hadn’t failed to notice had been mysteriously cleaned up over the past month. The extra boxes of supplies had been put away, and Victoria’s bolts of cloth, and her brothers’ haphazard inventions. They apparently expected Héctor to move in, and sooner rather than later. After seeing his current residence, Imelda realized she had been the one holding back.

He could do better.

_ They _ would do better.

Whatever he might have done, whatever his regrets, they would put it behind them. If he had demons in his past, they could stay there until they were buried. He needed to know that he was a part of their family, and it was about time she remembered that.

Fortunately, she knew exactly what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: bad things happen(ed). Héctor hears a cry for help.  
> It will be posted a week from now—it just needs a final beta read, and is one chapter I’ve been looking forward to for a long time. This is when things start getting fun ;)
> 
> Any feedback is always appreciated (good or bad!)  
> Until next week :D


	13. A Cry For Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Héctor hears a cry for help on the far edge of Shantytown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before this chapter starts, I want to share some amazing fanart that [BabyCharmander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyCharmander/pseuds/BabyCharmander) drew (in addition to being an amazing beta reader!).
> 
> It's from Chapters 3/4/5 and it's heartbreaking. See it [here](https://bcdrawsandwrites.tumblr.com/post/178873294123/a-couple-scenes-from-papergardeners-fic-who)!
> 
> OKAY, now onto the real chapter stuff...
> 
> ****WARNING****  
> Graphic aftermath of torture, strong references to assault, body horror (skeletons).
> 
> Reminder: ‘socorro,’ in addition to Coco’s full name, is also an urgent cry of distress.

 

January 1926

It was dusk as Héctor stumbled about the edges of Shantytown, hand buried in his pockets, kicking bits of rubbish into the ever-surrounding water and thinking about home. And the fact he didn’t have one.

Things had changed since that Christmas Eve—it was subtle, but he was aware of a new tension, nearly predatory, almost as if the world was waiting for him to slip up again. He couldn’t yet leave that place with the other men, but he adapted. From then on he was careful not to show his journal to anyone, careful not to show weakness. It was like walking along a narrow ledge, and he didn’t know where he was going. He was afraid of what would happen if he fell...

Days passed. Then a week.

A cold Christmas. A quiet New Years.

Héctor barely noticed.

It was like standing still while the world moved on around him, and he was detached from it all. He stopped playing his song every night, the words tasting false and bitter on his lips. The girl from the docks who had once kept company was no longer there. Alvaro still grinned and joked with him, but there was a coldness between them, and Héctor felt alone even when surrounded. 

He couldn’t stay in that place anymore, and that was why he now wandered along the old dilapidated boardwalks. His hope was that he could find one of the odd abandoned houses out there by the water where it was quiet and no one would bother him. He didn’t need much, just somewhere safe. And peaceful. Where he could be alone and people didn’t stare, or laugh, or demand he play music any hour of the day or night. He wished he could just be with his family…

But this might not be so bad, he thought miserably as he gazed around at the cold, ruined world. On either side of him were empty shacks, all of them either collapsed, missing entirely, or so rotten it was hard to imagine anyone within them.

It felt like a land of ghosts…

“Ah!” he shouted as he blindly pitched forward, his toe catching on the edge of planking so he stumbled to his knees.

“Ugh, dumb wood, dumb water,” he groaned, pulling himself back up and patting down the front of his pants. It was another reminder that he should really think about getting shoes.

“ _Socorro_ …”

Héctor stopped, a shiver running up his spine.

What… what was that? A memory? A ghost? Was someone calling for help? There was no one he could see. It was very, very quiet.

“Is… is someone there?” Héctor called out, holding his breath and looking out.

“Y-yes! I’m over here! Please…”

Yet Héctor still he couldn’t see anyone, the shadows stretching long and dark over the water, the world an ugly wash of gray from dark clouds in the west, blotting out the low sun.

“Where are you?” Héctor shouted again, moving forward along the rickety pathway and looking this way and that. He thought it had been from the left, but there was no one, no hint of movement.

“ _Aquí_! I’m in here!” the voice called out desperately.

It had come from a worn down pile of rubble, too dilapidated to even be called a building. Héctor stopped at the open doorway, the frame leaning at a slant, looking so unsteady he was afraid to even touch it. Could the voice have really come from inside? Carefully, with his hands pulled tight to his chest, he peered in, not even sure if it was safe to enter.

“ _Señor_?” Héctor said softly, his vertebrae prickling in warning. He must have the wrong place; it looked ready to fall at the next strong breeze. But there in the gloom he caught a tiny movement, a flash of white.

“I’m in here!” the man cried out, the voice strangely muffled and oddly… familiar. “Please, help me.”

Another shiver crawled up his back. This was wrong. Something was very wrong. Yet he carefully moved inside the dark building to find one wall partially destroyed and half of the roof caved in, with the remaining walls seeming to be almost propped up by rotting piles of junk that made it hard to walk, as Héctor stepped over a glass bottle and fallen debris. He looked around for the source of the voice.

But there was no one. The dark room seemed empty and still.

“Where…” Héctor began to ask, then stopped in horror.

He had found him. Or, what was left of him.

There, bound to a fallen wood beam, was the naked torso of a skeleton, the white bones of the ribs and vertebrae crossed with rope holding it up, the arms and legs gone, the bottom of the spine trailing into nothing. The head was covered in heavy, dark cloth, nearly invisible in the shadowed light. There was a strange, horrifying moment where he thought the thing must be beyond dead, a ghost of a ghost.

Then it moved.

Héctor stumbled backwards, tripping over something and then scrambling to his feet, breathing hard.

“Wait! Don’t go!” the muffled thing called out, straining against the ropes. “Please, just... just untie my hands, that’s all. Don’t... don’t leave me.”

 _What hands_? Héctor thought in alarm. There were no hands. Did the… the skeleton, the skull, not even realize it?

Then there was movement on the other side of the shack, making him jump, and he saw something white twisting from beneath a pile of rubble. Looking around, Héctor caught other pieces of white: a leg bound to a table, and a pelvic bone hung up like decoration.

_Por Dios…_

He took another step back, his own bones trembling, and found himself entirely unable to speak.

What had happened?

It was no great trouble for a skeleton to disconnect, he knew that. But this… this was different. It was grotesque, like seeing a slaughter, or a man’s dismemberment. Héctor moved further back, putting a hand behind him and found the edge of the door to steady himself. The wall groaned at the touch. He leapt away, afraid the roof might collapse, but it didn’t, and the room fell still once more.

Looking again at the skeleton, Héctor thought he might be sick. For a terrible moment, he was tempted to leave that broken house and the broken man and run. Get far, far from whatever nightmare he had walked into.

It moved again, a desperate, twisting jerk.

“Please…” the thing whispered, and Héctor closed his eyes.

He could do this.

The covered head lifted at his approach, seeming to watch him as he stepped closer. Héctor could see the pale ribs breathing faintly, even in the dusty darkness. Something was wrong, he thought again. Something he couldn’t quite place his finger on before, but he was edging closer. Where had he heard that voice before?

Standing over the bare figure, Héctor gripped the edge of the dark cloth and pulled it off, revealing the face of the man from before: the Forty-One.

The man blinked hard, shaking his head before looking up at Héctor. There was a brief flash of recognition, and then he jerked back in terror.

Neither spoke. They only stared mutely at each other, the only movement in the room was the tiny rise and fall of the man’s chest as he lay there, eyes huge and staring, waiting for whatever Héctor chose to do.

But he didn’t do anything. His mind went blank with an odd sort of snap, like the crack of bone. It was hard to think of anything past the roaring fog, and he almost tripped on the glass bottle as he found his legs staggering backwards. Again there was a desperate need to run, to get far away from that man, and the dark house, and the memories clawing at his mind.

That was why he had sounded familiar. It was _him_. The dangerous criminal. The man who…

Héctor should have ignored the cry for help. He should have learned from his mistakes. Numbly he became aware that he still gripping the heavy canvas in his hand, holding it tight as if it might stop his bones from shaking. His chest was too tight, his breath too small as he felt the ghosts of hands creeping over his skin, breath hot on the nape of his neck. He wanted to leave and try to forget. He wanted to get far away. Dark thoughts began to emerge from the fog…

Perhaps… perhaps he should leave.

 _Some men deserve hell_.

Some men deserved to be punished, he told himself, a cold fury overcoming the fear, while something hardened within him. Why should he help him? He didn’t know him, and Javier had told him to stay away, had said that he was dangerous. Perhaps this was justice. Maybe there was a good reason for him being there.

It would be so easy to walk away. This man was none of his concern.

Something must have shown on his face because the man flinched suddenly, as if Héctor was about to strike him. It was only then that Héctor noticed him trembling, what was left of the bones straining against the ropes, but he was bound tight. He couldn’t move. When Héctor looked to his face, something else replaced the fury building in his chest.

The man… was terrified of him.

He was trapped.

And hurt.

And afraid.

The memory of that night in Mexico City solidified and sharpened, and he thought about lying there bound on the street. He could almost feel the ropes digging into his skin, the dirt beneath his cheek. Alone. Afraid to be touched. Afraid of who might find him.

_What was he doing?_

He tossed aside the bag and stepped forward, his footsteps creaking in the silence. The man’s eyes widened and he tried to jerk away but couldn’t move, not an inch.

“Stop… stay back!” he called out. “Don’t you fucking come near me!”

“Hey, it’s all right.” Héctor raised his hands as he knelt beside him, his fingers moving towards the thick knot pressing down on his sternum, even as the ribs jerked as if trying to escape his touch.

“No… no don’t… don’t do this,” he said in a shaking voice, watching Héctor’s hands as they moved over his stuttering ribs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, just, God, please…”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Héctor said softly, and realized how badly his own hands were shaking as he found a rope end, fumbling with it in the dim light. “I’m gonna get you out of here.”

The man twisted beneath his hands with a sharp breath but he didn’t speak again, only turned his head and shut his eyes tight. In the painful silence, and so close to him, Héctor could hear and feel every strained breath, the ribs shuddering at his touch. The fear was palpable.

He could barely get his fingers to work they were so numb, and the ropes were pulled so tight against the bones, tighter than he would have thought possible. One dark rope was even stretched taut against his neck, almost choking him. Why? Who would have done this? The man could barely breathe…

Of course they didn’t need to breathe; he knew that. But still…  would it hurt? Would it feel like your ribs being crushed? The man sounded in pain. Héctor hunched his shoulders and worked faster to get the rope off, but the stupid knot wasn’t coming loose and he was getting more and more anxious. Why was this so hard?

 _Calm down,_ he told himself, hating how much his hands were shaking. _Just calm down. You can do this._

He tugged on one end of a rope, only making it worse, when a faint sound made him glance up and he saw the man holding his breath and clenching his jaw tight. It was like he was waiting for Héctor to hurt him, as if expecting to be attacked. The idea made something twist near his gut.

“Almost there,” Héctor muttered, knowing that wasn’t actually true but he had to say something against the pressing silence. This shouldn’t be so difficult. He leant forward, trying to get a better angle and about ready to shout at the dumb rope as he pressed against…

“Ahhh!” the man screamed in pain, his body jerking beneath him. “Stop, _stop_! Please!”

Héctor jumped back, throwing his hands in the air and nearly toppling backwards. “Sorry! W-what did I…”

Then he looked at where he had been leaning and saw it. One of the man’s left ribs was missing, snapped off. Two jagged edges of bone was all that were left, and Héctor realized he must have pressed against one by accident, not having noticed it between the darkness and the twisting ropes. He looked back at the man’s pinched face, bracing for the pain to return.

“I didn’t mean…” Héctor began, but his voice died away. He hadn’t meant to hurt him. He wasn’t trying to scare him. But he was. Why did he have to be the one to find him like this? Anyone else would have been better; someone who could actually do this without panicking. But it was too late to turn back. At that moment, he had to focus on getting him out of there. Once again his hand moved toward the rope, when a small intake of breath made him pause.

“Don’t…” the man said, so soft that Héctor barely heard, even in the silence. “Not again…”

His breath caught in his throat.

“I’m… I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m almost done, just… hang on.”

The man made no reply other than another useless strain against the ropes, sounding like he was struggling not to cry aloud. The noise sounded uncomfortably like Héctor’s own had been, a noise that would rise up in his nightmares. His own gasps intermingled with heavy grunts, hunched over, a terrible weight at his back, his own voice strange in his ears, begging for it to be over…

He couldn’t think about that. Not then. Not there. Focus. Stay in the present… the present wasn’t much better.

What could he do? He didn’t want to touch him or scare him and the damn rope wasn’t getting any looser. If anything, it was tighter than when he had started. Could he leave and come back with a knife? Except he was also afraid to just leave him there. Afraid to stay, afraid to run… damn it! Okay, focus, what can he do? How…

He glanced over his shoulder and got an idea. He rose up and nearly stumbled from how badly his legs were shaking, and went to pick up the glass bottle he had almost tripped on earlier. It was dark green and grimy, and he turned it in his hands, pouring out the last few dregs onto the old wooden floorboards. This might work. Looking around, he spotted the edge of a another fallen beam. With the neck of the bottle tight in his hand, he swung down.

It broke with an ear-splitting crack that seemed to pierce straight through his soul, but it worked. He held in his hand the neck of it, now with a long sharp edge. Feeling a little better with a real plan in mind, he turned to the man, who instantly winced, and then stiffened when he took a step closer.

“No…” he whispered, pressing back against the wooden beam, his eyes fixated on the broken glass. “Don’t do this, I…” His voice trailed off, and then he turned his head, pressing his mouth tight as if to force himself quiet.

Héctor stopped and glanced down to the sharp glass in-hand.

“I uh… okay, I know this looks bad, but that rope isn’t coming undone,” he said, as he held up a hand. “I just need to use this to cut it, all right? It’s um… it’s really hard.”

Héctor waited, hoping for some hint of permission, any slight acknowledgement of what he’d said, but the man’s expression only tightened, his eyes lifting and holding his own. He didn’t believe him. But whether he believed him or not, Héctor wasn’t going to just leave him there. He carefully moved forward, knelt beside him, and brought the sharp edge against the knot, sawing against the taut rope.

Thanking God and all the saints, the rope came loose with a snap, followed by the man’s sudden, shocked intake of breath. Then they both gasped as the torso nearly fell from the beam, with Héctor barely catching it. Quickly he nudged him up a little so the rope at his neck wasn’t choking him, and then held him there, the thin ribs twitching grotesquely in his hands.

“Right… sorry,” Héctor muttered between huge gasps, annoyed for not seeing that coming, having been so relieved at finally getting over that dumb knot. But there were still multiple loops of rope holding him in place, and some seemed to be almost interwoven with his ribs. Were they? Oh God, they were. Right where his lungs would have been. He’d need to pull them out.

Worse than that was the spine by his fingers, the trail of bones leading to nothing. The sight sickened him more than should have been possible, and he had to turn his face away and breathe for a long moment.

“Hold on,” he gasped, still not looking at him. “I’ll, uh…”

_Christ, he didn’t want to be there._

Héctor held the edge of the rib cage up with one hand, while he pulled the strands of rope away with the other, made all the more difficult as the rope caught on the small white bones of his chest. The man didn’t speak, just stared up at the ceiling with a clenched jaw, grimacing whenever Héctor had to adjust his hold on him, the ribs twitching with every breath. God, he didn’t want to do this.

“Almost got you out… almost…” Héctor’s voice was hoarse, the words barely coming out, but the silence was maddening. If the man would just talk a little bit that might help. Well, except if he started pleading again; then that’d make it much worse. Somehow it seemed to be getting worse regardless. With every piece removed the man grew more and more tense, as if waiting for something awful.

Some part of him wondered if he was doing the right thing, freeing this man. Maybe this was his due punishment. Perhaps Héctor should untie him and leave him there like that, so he couldn’t hurt anyone else. _Or_ , a dark, dark part of him whispered, he could take the grotesque body outside, drop him into the water and let him sink. Maybe he would be doing the world a favor.

But Héctor knew he didn’t have the stomach to do that. He had lost all taste for that kind of thing. All he had to do was free him and then he could leave, crossing himself on the way out and hoping he might forget.

Finally he was almost clear of the last ropes, and Héctor went to his throat. The man pushed his head back as Héctor pulled away the rope against his neck, and let out a startled gasp as he did so. One last looped piece had snagged between his shoulder and collarbone, which he had to wiggle out, and then the man was free. Or that part of him, at least.

He just had to… pick his body up. And not drop him. _Please don’t drop him_ , he silently prayed.

Carefully, very carefully, he lifted the man’s body away, almost afraid the bones would fall apart under his hands. Instead the ribs stiffened as the man held his breath, eyes shut tight, and trembling like a plucked string as Héctor held him, hating all of it. There weren’t many options, and so he set him on the ground, careful not to look at the trailing spine.

The man flinched hard once he felt the floor at his back, waiting until after Héctor pulled his hands away before daring to open his eyes, turning his head to look at the dark floorboards as if surprised to be set down instead of dropped. Or maybe he had expected something far worse. It would have been so easy to carry him out to the water and let him sink, and Héctor again pulled back against that terrible thought.

Then the man’s dark eyes turned upwards to look at him, wary and angry. His shoulder blades pressed backwards, as if wondering or waiting for him to crush his ribs under his foot, a mental image that Héctor really didn’t need to think about, and he quickly moved further back, almost stumbling again on that same broken bottle. He nudged it to the side, unreasonably annoyed at it, before looking around the shack.

Where were his hands? The… the man had mentioned them, so they must be nearby. Hands… damn, he hated skeletons! He shouldn’t have to look for someone’s _hands!_ Or any other part of him that was strewn about the room, but he had to.

His eyes caught a whiteness in the dark rubble. Were those his arms? Careful of where he stepped, he went over and knelt down, looking at the edge of the bundle of bones. It was hard to tell, but it looked a bit like an elbow. Nausea bubbled up within him, and he reminded himself that skeletons could easily fall apart, that it didn’t have to mean anything. They were bones. They could shatter entirely and be put together in less than a minute, this was… it was just bones. It didn’t have to hurt.

Not at all thinking about bloody, dismembered arms, he took hold of the white knobs and pulled. But a sudden noise made him look back to see the man gritting his teeth, straining his head back, clearly in pain and just as clearly trying not to make a sound.

Héctor looked again to the small edge of white jutting out from pile. It hadn’t pulled away easily. Had that hurt? Quickly he decided on a new plan and began to lift away the wood and crumbled clay bricks covering it. After a minute or so he had unburied them, two arms, and was faintly surprised to find that they had been tied up in a thin white cloth. As soon as the last weight was removed the bound bones shuddered, making Héctor nearly fall back in shock, but managed to hold them down before they jumped away.

“What…” the man asked nervously from where he lay, trying to call them to him. “What are you—?“

“I-I need to untie them,” Héctor said in a strangely high voice, hating how the bones squirmed under his hands. “Can you… can you stop that?”

Thankfully, after a moment, they stilled. Although even then he could still feel the tension, the faint tremors. He could barely make out where the fabric ends where in the darkness, before finally finding a double-knot that came undone far easier than the earlier ropes.

“Hang on, just a little more…”

Once freed, he let go, pulling his hands back and watched the bones shudder and rattle lightly against the wooden floorboards. But that was all they did. Drunkenly they rolled only a little towards the man and then stopped, merely twitching there. Why wasn’t he calling them back? Héctor looked over at the man, caught the pained, desperate look on his face, and realized… he couldn’t.

It felt like he had swallowed a stone, a cold weight settling in his gut. He thought bones always came back, it was just part of the magic. Maybe it faded over time. There was something terribly unsettling about that.

Maybe he only imagined the despairing, almost-sob from the man as Héctor cautiously picked up the arms one by one and carried them over. The bones shivered again in his grasp and he very nearly dropped them, holding them tight to his chest until it stopped, and he let out a breath.

He hated skeletons. God, he hated skeletons.

Lifting one of the arms, he grimaced and held it to one of the empty sockets and felt it pull itself into place with a sharp gasp. As Héctor did the other arm, he saw the man struggle just to move it at all, and noticed the arms only ended at the wrist. He went back to where he had found them, even peering under a fallen piece of wood.

“Where… I, uh, I don’t see your hands.”

There was silence, and Héctor turned to see the man studying him, still wary and unsure. Finally he moved his head a little with a faint flicker of his eyes.

“The corner,” he said.

There came a small sound like the rustling of a mouse, and Héctor told himself to stop jumping at every single thing. He had to calm down, for pity sake.

Nonetheless, he followed the noise and there, buried under more rubbish, he found a small bundle that shuddered like a bird caught in a net. Gently he carried it over, afraid to drop it or hold it too tight, before setting it down beside the man. Inside the tied cloth was a pile of small white bones that unfurled into two hands, and Héctor watched as they shivered, staggered and leapt up, fastening to each wrist with another strong wince from the man.

The slowly growing skeleton lifted them painfully, his arms seeming too heavy, and held them up before his eyes, rotating the wrists and curling the stiff fingers. Héctor was almost surprised when he found himself holding his own wrists, remembering the numbness from being tied up that night, the ugly bruises that he had kept hidden from everyone. The fear of being discovered.

 _Don’t think about that_ , he reminded himself. He wasn’t done yet.

Blinking out of that memory, he noticed the man watching him, his expression hard to read. Héctor pushed back the memories even further, as if the man might be able to see his mind and know. The thought terrified him. He would not be weak. Not here.

He next went to the hanging pelvic bone, focusing on the thin rope woven around it so he didn’t have to think about the actual bone, and what it was supposed to be like with skin. Héctor glanced over his shoulder and found the man—or at least the growing half of him—holding a hand to his empty ribs and staring hard, his mouth a hard straight line. Quickly he looked back to the tangle of rope.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s pretty well tied.”

There was no reply, and Héctor was relieved when it was finally loosened and fell into his hands. To be safe he carried it over and, grimacing, held it near the bottom of his ribs, carefully looking away. When he glanced again it had pulled into place and the man looked a bit better for it, more like a real person. Although his face was still tight as he tried to shift himself off the floor. Héctor wasn’t sure if it was pain or shame that caused the hard look.

He wondered just how long had he been left there, tied up. How long had the man been calling out for help, hoping someone would listen? There was a new chill… had anyone else come by and turned away at the sight of him? Like Héctor had nearly done? If only he wasn’t so damn afraid, maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult. At least he was almost done. The only remaining bit of white he could see was a leg bone, folded up and strapped tight to a table leg.

It only took a minute, but even so the world seemed to darken a little more every second. The man reached out a hand and took the leg bone when Héctor offered it, and this at least he re-attached with not too much trouble.

Pulling it up at the knee, the man slowly sat up, or tried to. Héctor knelt and put a hand at his back as he struggled, his arms and legs weak. As soon as he was stable Héctor moved away again.

“Thank you,” the man said stiffly, without any real gratitude.

At least he was nearly done with him. Just one more leg and he would at least be able to walk. But he couldn’t see any more hints of white.

“I uh… I can’t see your other leg.“

“It’s not here,” the man said in a low voice, not looking at him. “I think it was thrown in the water. There’s something weighing it down, I can’t pull it back.”

“Oh… then how…?“

“Don’t… you don’t need to concern yourself.” His voice was surprisingly cold, and he curled an arm around his bare pelvis. Héctor quickly turned away.

“Okay, then uh… where are your um… your clothes?”

“I don’t know,” the man muttered, speaking to the floor. “I don’t think they’re here.”

When Héctor glanced down he seemed to shrink further in on himself, as if he might choke on his own shame. The man must have been stripped when they pulled his bones apart.

Hector had a vivid, unwanted thought of this man being forced to the ground as he fought back, while skeletons surrounded him, laughing as they held him down, tearing off his shirt and ripping his arms from their sockets. Héctor took an involuntary step back at the terrible image, almost hearing the man’s screams as skeletons yanked his pants down before they pulled off his legs, one by one. He swore he could hear the cruel laughter.

The man’s head turned towards him, almost challenging him to say or do something, and Héctor wished he hadn’t just imagined all of that.

Is that what had happened?

The desire to get away rose up stronger, and he forced it back, focusing on just breathing and the tight pain in his ribcage. But he couldn’t just leave him there like that.

“I, uh…look, I can—"

“You’ve done enough,” the man said through gritted teeth. “I can handle this. Just go.”

The man tried to rise, leaning heavily on the wall on his one leg, looking strangely thin and small in his naked bones, and like he was in great pain. His leg shook violently and a moment later he clattered to the floor with a muffled grunt, one hand flying to his missing rib as he bent over.

“Hey, take it easy—“ Héctor reached out to help but the man pulled away, like he couldn’t bear the touch of him.

“Stop! Will you just leave me alone!” he said harshly.

“I’m just trying to help—“

“I don’t want your damn help!” he shouted, and Héctor was taken aback by the absolute fury.

The man seemed to realize it as well, shock flashing across his face before he lowered his head as if to hide it. Then he went on in a carefully measured tone, “You… you’ve already helped me. I appreciate it. I do. But I can manage. Please, leave me be. Just… forget this ever happened.”

Héctor slowly stood up, raising his hands to show he meant no harm, and wished he didn’t feel so ill. The man was still terrified of him, and Héctor wished he hadn’t given him so many reasons to be.

“All right,” he said softly, feeling like a coward. “All right, I’ll go.”

Perhaps it was for the best. He desperately didn’t want to be there, and the man didn’t want him around either. Héctor had freed him. Helped as best he could. That should be enough.

And, despite everything, he also couldn’t deny that same fear, the revulsion shuddering through him. He knew little about him; at the moment all he was sure of was that the man was furious at him. What’s more, even though he was hurt, that didn’t mean he might not be a threat. When Héctor was young he had been told that it was a wounded animal that could be the most dangerous.

But as he got to the door he caught a slight noise and turned to see the man again trying to stand. He was leaning heavily against the wall, fingers scrabbling to grip the soft wood, and struggling to pull his leg under him. It wasn’t just the missing leg making it so difficult, it seemed.

Sure enough, just as the man was almost standing his arm wrenched out of the socket with a sickening grind of bone, and the man collapsed again with bit back cry of pain. For several long seconds he lay there on the ground, gasping and clutching at his shoulder, before slowly pushing himself up, head bowed low. There was no way he would be able to walk out of there on his own.

Héctor couldn’t leave him like that.

With a shaky breath, hoping his own lingering terror wasn’t obvious, Héctor stepped back inside and took off his jacket. He was careful that the long sleeves didn’t catch on his shoulder joints as it slid off, but looked up at a sudden noise.

The skeleton had lurched away at the sight of him, curled up against the wall and staring up with wide eyes, trying in vain to shield himself.

“Don’t…” he muttered, leaning away, and then his face hardened. “Don’t you fucking dare—!“

“I’m not… I’m not going to hurt you.”

Héctor felt a chill creep into his marrow as he realized what he had done. If he had been in his place, naked and beaten and a man took off his clothes… he felt something crawl up his throat. Swallowing back the fear, he held out the jacket and tried to ignore how exposed he suddenly felt, his ribs and back open to the cold air.

“Here… you can cover yourself with this.”

The man just braced further against the rotten wall, shaking his head.

“You’ve done enough,” he said, angry and terrified and still trying to cover his nakedness with a bony arm. “Please, _please_ just leave me alone. You don’t have to... I-I know you hate me. I get it. Just go.”

He tensed and pulled his one leg closer as Héctor knelt down, still holding out the jacket, and looked him steadily in the eyes.

“You’re not gonna make it very far by yourself.”

The man stared back, his empty ribs rising and falling. Terror flickered through his dark eyes.

“You… you don’t have to do this.”

“I promise, I’m not going to do anything. I just want to help.”

With a deep breath he bowed his head forward, curling tight into himself, looking small and pitiful. Héctor could almost see it in the slump of his shoulders, could feel the biting tension in the air. The ropes were gone, but he was still trapped.

Finally, he turned his head upwards with the resigned face of a man headed to a firing squad. With a trembling hand he reached out and took the offered jacket, quietly tying it around his waist. Héctor stood and held out a hand, but it was deliberately ignored as the man pressed himself back against the wall and slowly, painfully tried to pull himself up. He couldn’t. Once more he fell hard to the ground, and Héctor moved closer.

“Here, let me—“

But he stopped at the vicious look on his face as he sat there, little more than a heap of bones and almost daring Héctor to say something.

Héctor let his hand drop to his side. “Listen, I can at least help you walk back to your place. Just tell me where to go.”

The man just clenched his jaw, staring down.

“Do you… have anywhere you can go?”

“No,” he said after a moment.

Héctor looked away, frowning. The plan had been to help him back to wherever he lived, and then probably go buy a whole bottle of something terrible and try to not wake up for a week. That plan was no longer an option.

Where else could they go? Staying there was terrifying, completely out of the question. There was no way he could take him back to Javier’s place.

He must have stood there too long, because the man shifted further away, one hand moving to the tied jacket at his waist. “I mean it, you don’t need to do this. I can give this back—“

“No, no way,” Héctor said, surprised by his own determination. “I’m not going to leave you here like this. No, no, we’re getting out of here. I just… give me a minute.”

Where could they go? Héctor went over to a window, little more than an open gash in the wall, and glanced out to the dark sky and thin lights from the distant buildings. They were far from anyone, and it would be difficult to walk anywhere in his condition. He needed someplace safe and with someone he could trust, because he knew he couldn’t do this on his own.

Unfortunately, only one person came to mind.

“Listen, I-I have somewhere we can go, not far from here. We can stay there for the night. It uh… it’ll be fine.”

The man only grew more suspicious, glowering at him.

“I’m serious,” Héctor said, trying to sound reassuring. “Look, here’s what we can do: we’ll go to my uh… friend’s place. And in the morning we’ll come back here and look for your… leg. I guess. And uh… clothes. Then I’ll leave you be and we’ll never have to talk to each other again. All right? Sound like a plan?”

Héctor wondered if his own grin looked as manic as it felt, for the man only glared harder, sinking his head lower like a challenge.

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“Well do you want to stay here all night? Because I sure don’t.” Frankly he didn’t want to be anywhere with the man, but that wasn’t much of an option either.

The man sighed, letting the seconds pass by.

“Fine,” he said eventually, still looking like he trusted Héctor as far as he could jump. The feeling was mutual. “All right. Fine. Let’s just…” He stopped suddenly, a strange look on his face, and muttered, “just get it over with.” He looked up sharply as Héctor moved closer.

“Ok then… I’ll just, uhh…” Héctor held out his hands, edging up to him and not actually doing anything. The whole thing was more awkward than he had expected. The fact they were both half-naked really didn’t help. Or that the man was looking at him like he was an idiot. “Just… put your arm… over my shoulder…”

He really didn’t want to touch him, but that was going to get them nowhere. And the man really wasn’t helping! Taking a deep breath, Héctor looked around the room as if he might find something to help, or just to distract himself. Then there was a noise at his side as the man pulled away from the wall, just a little, and held his arm out, still glaring.

But that was okay! It was at least a good step towards getting out of there. He knelt beside him, stooping as the man put his arm over the back of his neck. Héctor reached around the man’s side and touched the thin, rounded bones of his ribs, and stopped. Was he supposed to grab his ribs? His hip? Instead he curled his hand into a fist and tried not to think about it. There was a lot of bone on bone, and Héctor desperately tried not to think about that either, and wished he was wearing a shirt.

He hoisted him up, and after a moment the man managed to stand, more or less, pulling his leg under him with considerable difficulty and wavering so much he had to cling to Héctor’s arms and shoulders, before finally steadying. Only then did the man become aware of how close they were. Héctor knew the exact moment he realized it, because he could feel the man’s bones tense sharply against his, leaning away as if sensing how much Héctor didn’t want to be there either.

“Ready?” Héctor asked.

“No.”

“Great, me neither. Let’s go.”

But it was harder than either expected. The man’s leg wasn’t working, and even the arm looped over his shoulder seemed to disconnect far too easily. They only just made it a few steps outside when they stumbled, Héctor barely catching them before they fell into the black water on either side.

“Stop, stop!” the man called out, gasping as his leg violently shook, nearly crumbling at the knee, and forced to lean hard against Héctor’s side. “I… I can’t do this,” he said, his voice ragged.

“Okay. Okay, just, uh, just hold on,” Héctor said, trying not to panic. “Right, what if we just… what about this?” He stooped a little, taking more of his weight and putting one hand where the man’s shoulder met his arm, holding tight where the bones had almost separated before. “This work?”

“I… yes, I think so.” He was apparently trying hard to not look at him as he caught his breath. “Are you really sure about this?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s just get out of here.”

It was awkward, but they managed. As they came to the main pathway, Héctor prayed that no one would find them. They were too exposed out there in the open. But it was truly dark by then, and the place was deserted as far as he could see. 

As they turned onto a familiar dark pathway, he paused a moment and tried to think how best to get there. He still didn’t know if his plan would work. If not, then what? Héctor bit his lip and glanced over.

“Hey, uh, just a head’s up. My friend may, uhhh, possibly be a bit… not too happy to see me.”

The man looked at him with something between fury and alarm, and Héctor gave a nervous grin back.

Hopefully this would work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, we'll see where they go- should be up in about a week.
> 
> Big thank you to all those you commented!


End file.
